


Vetrnaetr

by E_Wills (orphan_account)



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Sequel, be not afraid, emotions are hard, no love triangles here, wanting to slap almost everyone in this story is a perfectly normal response
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 17:22:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9833546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/E_Wills
Summary: This story picks up about three months from where "Affairs of the Heart, And Other Things Vikings Don't Talk About" left off. As the holidays draw closer, Hiccup feels pulled in several directions, all at once. Balancing his responsibilities, personal life, and personal interests tests his patience. Meanwhile, Astrid is ever the pragmatist- her idea of how Hiccup should handle his increasing list of responsibilities seems straightforward enough. Well, to HER anyway.A hard fought for, hard won relationship is pushed to its breaking point. Can two headstrong Vikings overcome the bullheadedness of youth and selfish perspectives?(Yes, yes. Typos and errors pop up every now and then. Forgive me. Proofreading is not my forte.)





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**  This is the sequel to _Affairs Of the Heart, And Other Things Vikings Don’t Talk About._ It takes place approximately three months later. That would be the end of October by the Gregorian calendar, but Vikings only acknowledged two seasons: Winter and summer. The holiday of _Vetrnaetr_ (translates to Winter Nights) marked the end of summer and the summer’s harvest, and the start of winter. It was one of the three most sacred holidays on the Viking calendar, for context.

If I can provide any forewarning, this will be rich with angst because of course, and you will probably get mad at Hiccup. You’ll probably get mad at Astrid. That is very much the point. Have some Nutella and we’ll all get through this together. 

Also, **heads up for adult content**. Not necessarily explicit, but it’s clearly there. In your face. Just rather vague.

***RTTE does not exist in Affairs-verse. This will make more sense later.***

  
The seasons were changing again, bidding farewell to the extra hours of leisure of summer’s warmth. Though early winter had its appeal, with the bountiful harvests, spiced cider, and comforting aroma of the dying leaves, it seemed an abrupt transition between the two seasons. It was the time of year riddled with weddings and holidays for anyone who failed to notice the creeping frost and numb fingers. For three glorious months, the sun shone for most of the day, graciously basking the Isle of Berk in its radiant warmth for all to enjoy—when it was not raining, which it often did. The remainder of the year, however, could be described as somewhere between “oh Thor, I can’t feel my face” and “take a breath outside and your lungs will freeze”. The nights grew longer, the days shorter, and the biting cold settled over the archipelago. Every year, the same routine.

Hiccup shivered involuntarily and buried even deeper into his bundle of furs, shielding himself from the morning’s chill that seeped, uninvited, through his bedroom window. Astrid has climbed stealthily out of his room in the middle of the night, leaving him naked and content, with the memory of her skin beneath his fingertips and a searing heat greater than any fire. 

He sighed, waking gradually. His pillow still smelled of his girlfriend’s hair and he buried his face into it, wishing they did not have to maintain an appearance of propriety after their relationship had been so hard-won. Kissing was only just enough anymore, but it did keep his lips warm.

As if it sensed his faint smile, a gust of wind rattled his shutters pointedly, making him burrow. Berk’s cold, damp climate permeated everything, and it was just a natural part of being a Hooligan to grow accustomed to such misery, but their dragons were not so tolerant.

Hiccup heard a small growl and a scaly little body rummaged around beneath his covers. A tail brushed his stomach and he snorted into the furs; he had always been ticklish there. 

Sharphot turned around three times, pulling the covers loose from Hiccup’s head and shoulders as he wound himself up in them. With a soft grunt, the dragon settled into the concavity of his human’s somewhat fetal position. In the summers, sprawled out with his one foot exposed was Hiccup’s preferred method of sleep. As the temperature dropped, he drew his limbs in tighter, and his Terrible Terror was all too keen to share a bed.

“You’re welcome,” Hiccup mumbled, patting the dragon beneath the furs. He did not allow Sharpshot to have his way too often; large eyes narrowed with envy in the shadows of the room. “I’m sorry, Toothless. You’re too—,“ he paused for a yawn, “—big.”

The Night Fury growled in disapproval, dropping his head onto his claws in a clear pout.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Hiccup sighed, but he sat up regardless. Toothless could tug at his heartstrings like no one else could.

He reached for his pants, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to work them on with practiced ease. Balancing as he pulled them up his hips used to be a clumsy task. He held on to the bed post as he retrieved his prosthesis, which he kept on top of the wooden chest at the foot of his bed. He deftly fastened it to the stump of his leg before cautiously bearing weight on it, making sure it was secure. The design had come a long way since its inception. The newest model was lighter, so it did not cause him quite as much discomfort as its predecessor.

He finished dressing and stretched out his right shoulder, which seemed to ache more now that the air was cold and dry, echoing the occasional twinge in his leg. He gently kneaded the stiff muscles with his other hand, feeling a faint burning sensation that radiated down his arm to his fingertips.

He frowned, knowing that there would always be some residual nerve damage that time would not overcome. He put on a brave face, like he did in those first days of healing when his amputation was new. Considering how bad the injury had been, he was very pleased with how well it _had_ mended. More than anything, he was just happy it did not hamper his ability to fly with Toothless.

“Ready?” Hiccup asked, glancing at the Night Fury. His voice was still thick and his eyes, half-lidded with grogginess. He combed through his tousled hair with his fingers.

Toothless bounded from his sleeping stone, bright and alert, and completely forgiving Sharpshot’s transgression. 

The Terrible Terror merely nestled into the blankets, occupying the still-warm space Hiccup’s body had left behind. He was nothing but an asymmetric lump beneath a bed of furs.

Hiccup smiled and shook his head, limping for the door like he did every morning until his leg readjusted from a night unhindered. His gait usually stabilized by the time he reached the stairs, and he took them quickly with Toothless close behind.

“Mornin’ son,” his father greeted as mismatched feet hit the bottom step. The man was still enjoying his breakfast before his unending responsibilities took him elsewhere. The bowl and spoon were always dwarfed in his colossal hands. “Toothless,” he added with a nod, sliding forward a plate of cod from yesterday’s haul, still flecked with some of the ice in which they had been packed.

“Dad,” Hiccup acknowledged, take the plate of cod and tossing the fish into the air.

Toothless snapped up his breakfast in one mouthful.

“Are yeh takin’ him flyin’, then?” Stoick asked casually, but with that unsettling undertone that made Hiccup bristle.

“Yeah. Like I do almost every morning. Why?” he replied, dropping in the seat across the table. He smoothed down his untidy hair.

It was not simply a conversation about his plans for the day. Flying was just a prelude to something very unpleasant. Hiccup recognized that raise of bushy eyebrows and that subtle, yet uncomfortable squirm of his father’s large frame.

“I take it yeh know what time of the year it is,” Stoick said, setting his jaw.

Hiccup stared at him blankly. “Well, if the garlands and wedding feasts have been any indication this past month, then I’d say it’s—“

“ _Vetrnaetr_ is almost upon us.”

Hiccup quirked an eyebrow, pulling his breakfast toward him. “Right, and that’s…good, isn’t it? Revels and alcohol? You’ll have a happy tribe of Vikings on your hands. What more could a chief possible ask for? Though, there will be drunk flying, and probably more than one traumatic case of indecent exposure.” He muttered under his breath, “Probably Gobber again…”

Stoick cleared his throat, sitting up straight. “In a few days, I’ll be sailin’ te Helgafell, te gives thanks, and offer up a sacrifice te see us through the winter.”

“Ah, right. The old ‘animal sacrifice so the Dísir like us and make our crops grow’ routine.” Sarcasm dripped from every syllable as Hiccup added, “That makes so much sense.” He popped a piece of honeyed bread into his mouth.

Stoick rubbed his forehead wearily. “Hiccup, when yer Chief, these customs will be yer responsibility.”

“Isn’t that what we have Gothi for? Isn’t she kind of the spiritual leader? Our resident mystic?”

Stoick scowled, breathing deeply as he did whenever he bit back a particularly scathing rebuke. He began, “I’m leavin’—“

Hiccup held up his hands. “I promise I won’t let Snotlout or the twins burn the village down in the meantime.” He smiled reassuringly.

His father added, nodding more to himself as his eyes narrowed with conviction, “Yer comin’ with me.”

Hiccup’s face fell instantly. He sat up straighter, puffing his chest. “What? Why?” he snapped. “I-I have plans. I—Astrid and I were going to start on this mapping project we’ve—I-Is this because I left the forge unattended again? What did Gobber tell you? I had a perfectly good reason—“

“It’s not a punishment, son!” Stoick interrupted, cutting the air was a decisive hand. “Yer eighteen. It’s time we start takin’ yer trainin’ seriously. Yer goin’ te be the next Chief, Odin help me.”

“You’re not going to keel over and die, dad! Why rush it?” Hiccup argued. “Surely we can wait another year…or five.”

Stoick hissed through clenched teeth, “This isn’t negotiable, Hiccup. I’ve made up my mind on this.”

“Right, and that essentially means my feelings are irrelevant.” 

Hiccup was suddenly fifteen again, debating his father on dragon training and losing for a lack of understanding.

Stoick stood, jamming his helmet on his head. “It’s only a week, son.” He strode toward the door. “When we get back, yeh’ll be assistin’ me full time with preparation fer _Vetrnaetr_.”

Indignation rippled up Hiccup’s spine and he swiveled in his seat to glare at the last hint of his father’s fur cape retreating into the dim morning light.

He threw one hand up in exasperation. “Sure. Leave that part until last.”

The door slammed and he could hear the voices beyond it clearly.

“Ohh, mornin’ Stoick. I take it yer scowl and the raised voices means ye told ‘im,” Gobber greeted. 

The conversation faded as the two men hurried away, but Hiccup caught his father’s reply. “I swear, it’s like pullin’ teeth. Tryin’ te get him te do anythin’ he doesn’t want te do…”

Hiccup pursed his lips, glaring a hole in the table. His hands balled to fists in his lap. 

His father spoke for his time so freely, without much consideration or forewarning. After all, being Chief meant the man technically owned the island and every blade of grass on it. What should his son be but other possession to manipulate as he liked?  Hiccup’s own plans be damned. Perhaps he and his father could have an agreeable exchange for once, if he was not “volun-told” with such finality.

Toothless warbled, nudging Hiccup warily with his snout. His pupils were rounded, ears drooped. 

“It’s alright, bud,” Hiccup sighed, stroking the dragon’s head. His frustrations ebbed as his fingers traced over smooth scales. “I’ve lost my appetite.” 

He pushed away from the table and Toothless perked up considerably. They both needed the flight.

  
There was a part of Hiccup that wondered if Vikings has a natural tolerance to the cold. Sure, his fingers were numb on his dragon’s reins, and the wind cut through all of his layers without mercy. His cheeks stung and his eyes watered in the thin air of approaching winter, but it was all to be expected. He still kept flying and the village below him still kept working, despite the climate which most would find uninhabitable. Dragons circled below and fishing vessels set their nets, and Hiccup flew Toothless over the island like a silent, black specter, born of the wispy clouds. Berk fell behind them, the open sky was all that was in front of them, with the vast sea below.

Perhaps the excitement of the impending festivities was enough to warm the soul for everyone else—elation that spread into their fingers and toes and kept them working diligently for the celebration to come? Who could be dour with the hopes of a new year’s beginning and the fresh start it would bring? Besides Hiccup, of course, to whom the carefree frivolity of _Vetrnaetr_ had suddenly become a relic of childhood.

Responsibilities he neither wanted, nor needed, piled up and he could even begin to name them all—preparations, coordination of trade of essential goods with Johann, keeping the twins from destroying anything, taking an active role in the spiritual proceedings, collection of the annual fealty pledges, making sure the twins did not destroy anything. All while maintaining the poise and dignity of a proper heir of Berk. There were still the dragon races he was expected to organize, the promises he made to Astrid which were of very little consequence in his father’s tunnel vision. Would he still be expected to work in the smithy? More importantly, would he be _allowed_ to work in the smithy? An impromptu trip with his father, helping to oversee the _Vetrnaetr_ festival—he was not inherently opposed to either task, but a gradual easing into his future was preferable to being thrown into it, like a fledgling booted from its nest. 

Maybe his father expected him to delegate all of the dragon-related responsibilities he actually enjoyed?

Hiccup sighed, combing back the bangs flapping wildly against his forehead. Toothless’s bulk shifted beneath him and he click his dragon’s prosthetic tail into position without a thought. It was second nature to him. That subtle roll of Toothless’s shoulders immediately preceded a sharp pitch to left. Hiccup learned to feel it more than consciously look for it. There was something about flying dragons—and maybe he had a bit of an edge as such an integral part of Toothless’s flight—where it could be more than a passive experience. 

He felt the Night Fury’s movements in his legs, and there was a corresponding twitch of his own muscles. Ever since that nearly catastrophic first flight, there was a mental and physical synchronization, almost innate. To fly with Toothless was to come as close as Hiccup ever could to being a dragon, to that unbending freedom he could only just taste and so deeply envied.

Time was of little to no concern among the clouds, and he judged the length of their flight by the satisfaction of his Night Fury. If Toothless was content, so was Hiccup, and they reached the point together by a mutual interest in more than leisurely flying. Drops, turns, inversions—maneuvers other dragons could not accomplish with such speed and grace—was a necessary thrill to take away that stress, to let it plummet into the glistening sea with every daring loop and roll.

Hiccup patted his dragon’s thick neck after some time and Toothless warbled happily. He was sated and Hiccup could relate. It been at least an hour, maybe closer to two, judging by the sun’s position. It was enough time to process what the next couple of weeks had in store, and to make some kind of peace with it.

“Ready to head back bud?”

The dragon growled out something Hiccup took for a yes, and with another adjustment to the Night Fury’s tail, they were heading toward Berk, which had become only a jagged shape in the distance, rising up like a splinter from the sea’s otherwise flat affect. Frustration awaited for Hiccup in the form of a towering chieftain, but flying had provided enough serenity and mental clarity that he felt he could face his father and the new responsibilities of the _Vetrnaetr_ season with a level head. Still annoyed, and still unwilling, his patience had been restored and his indignation, muted. When his father’s mind was made up, it was near unchangeable. The exhilarating wind had helped him accept the inevitable, the rush of sudden dives and severed him from his bitter mood. The liberating connection with his dragon had built up a tentative resignation in his head, maintainable as long as everything else remained steady.

His friends could occupy themselves. They were all adults. Astrid, well, that was hard fought and hard won, but it was a good thing. Solid. His injured shoulder and all the internal upheaval they had both endured was worth it for what the last three months had brought. Astrid had once been an intermittent torment he tried to ignore, but she had become his constant. Always there, always his grounding when he needed it. She had tended to his healing shoulder, not letting him over or under exert himself, mulled over improvements to Inferno with him. She was—they were everything they ought to have been. The last two years never happened, proving they had only been stuck in a temporary nightmare and they were finally awake. How easy it was, settling into that old, friendly rapport with the physicality of lovers. No more tension, sexual or otherwise. Moments of laughing and playful banter would become bare skin and hushed moans, then back to teasing and lightheartedness again. Seamless.

Relationships were supposed to be work, were they not? How often had he heard men bemoan their women—the nagging, the inability to be satisfied? Hiccup could not understand it. Being around Astrid gave him a dizzying high, an enticing sense of delirium. How could it be work when they were pulled together by something beyond conscious thought? Astrid was both his affliction and his remedy. He wanted her to keep his head spinning, for as the world around them dissolved into nothing but indistinct colors and shapes whenever they were together, all he could see was Astrid, with perfect clarity, as she spun along with equal fervor.

He had her and he had Toothless, and everything else was just a passing distraction. _Vetrnaetr_ might still be enjoyable as long as he kept them both close.

There was a twinge of regret as Toothless glided low over familiar roofs. It was always the same lament to once again be on the ground. Windswept and invigorated with residual adrenaline, Hiccup dismounted his dragon. He flattened his mussed hair and felt brighter, hotter, like burning ore, and ready to channel his lingering excitement into something productive. Toothless followed. He was but Hiccup’s other constant, always there, his best friend and a part of himself. Hiccup was not sure how he could make sense of anything if he did not have Toothless.

He curled one arm underneath the dragon’s wide jaw in a loose embrace the Night Fury leaned into. They walked together, dodging Terrible Terrors scurrying underfoot. It was not until they began the uphill climb home that Hiccup noticed a Deadly Nadder outside his front door. Tall, beautiful, and proud, Stormfly was a perfect match for her Viking counterpart standing beside her, and a perfect companion for Toothless. 

The dragons bounded forward to greet each other, leaving Hiccup to face his girlfriend one-on-one, and there was a sharpness in her gaze that had not been directed at him in a while. His pace slowed to cautious steps.

“Astrid!” he chimed, hoping a cheerful disposition would diffuse a bit of her temper—not that he had ever had much success.

“Where _were_ you?” she asked, folding her arms with an impatient cocking of her hip.

“Flying with Toothless.” He gestured to the dragon as if the Night Fury would back him up, but Toothless was busy wrestling with Stormfly.

Astrid huffed, dropping her arms to the side. She strode toward him, more irritated than angry. “I waited for you, practically freezing to my saddle!”

Hiccup shuffled through his memory for a fragment of conversation from the day before. It was an agreement that he would race through the sea stacks with her, only to then warm up with a dip in the hot springs. Their daylight intimacy was limited and he grimaced as he recalled his promise of more alone time.

Astrid’s mouth was a thin frown and the corner of her eyes crinkled with disappointment. Hiccup could kick himself, and he was sure Astrid would have loved the pleasure of doing it for him.

“I’m so sorry, Astrid. I-I came downstairs and dad was ready to pounce with—we fought and our plans just slipped my mind,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

If there was anything that could rouse Astrid’s pity, it was the sometimes rocky relationship Hiccup had with his father. It was enough to give her pause and forget her own frustrations, though Hiccup was not entirely sure why. It was his problem to bear, it always had been. He preferred for it to stay just his problem.

But Astrid’s features softened. “You two fought again?”

He sighed, “When don’t we fight?”

She pursed her lips, skeptical. Behind her piercing eyes was a swirling reality check—the kind she served without hesitation or sympathy. “That’s being a little dramatic. Just the other day you were telling me how much better things have been since the dragons.”

Hiccup rolled his eyes. Astrid did not understand the emotive utility in hyperbole. “True. He’s just…you know how he is.” Stubborn, coarse, demanding, with an unwavering air of superiority. A mountain of parental authority and disapproval Hiccup could never seem to scale. He was always struggling at the base, cast in the perpetual shadow.

Astrid scoffed. “No, I don’t know, because you stop short of telling me.”

Hiccup glanced away, jaw clenched. Being the chief’s son came with its unique aggravations he was not sure Astrid would appreciate. She was so barb-tongued when critical, and it was such a vulnerable aspect of his life. He did not need a lecture from his girlfriend when, from his father, they were already plentiful.

“We can visit the hot springs tonight, if that works for you,” he said, redirecting the course of their conversation to putting Astrid’s frustrations to rest.

She shook her head. “The point is to spend more time together in the _day_ , Hiccup.”

He supposed the smithy, meals, shared flights suddenly went uncounted.

“We do spend time together—“

Her blue eyes pinned him a silent condemnation the he clearly understood. She snapped, “Time when I’m not just sitting on some workbench, watching you tinker with your latest project.”

Hiccup’s fists clenched and he bit back his defensive sarcasm that would be well applied against anyone else. He felt stung; all that smiling and stolen glances over his sketches suddenly felt diminished. Intentional or not, it hurt for the implications of duplicity—the bubbling thought that Astrid could be disingenuous with him just when he thought those days were over.

“You said you were happy to help,” he retorted.

“I was—I _am_ ,” she amended, but the echo of her prior words had not yet faded. “But I would like your attention a little more undivided so I know I’m a little more important to you than upgrading Inferno.”

He built her things, flew with her often, held her and gave her his heart, his body, and his time. He never imagined it would not be enough. It was all of himself he knew how to give.

“What is it?” Astrid asked in his silence, touching his shoulder with a tenderness that was almost an apology.

“Nothing,” he replied; there was nothing to be gained by being vulnerable with her then. There had rarely been anything gained by being vulnerable, period. Years of ostracism had taught him as much. 

She stepped closer, her touch firmer and her tone exasperated. “Hiccup—“

“It’s nothing, Astrid,” he reassured her from behind old walls that stood resolute.

Astrid considered him, nodding and stepping into his arms, which came around her with less than his usual enthusiasm. “

Okay. So, tonight, we’ll meet at the hot springs,” she said decisively. His hum of agreement was apparently not enough. She dipped down, catching his gaze with her unavoidable determination. “Hiccup?”

He cracked a small smile and pulled her tighter, wondering if a closer proximity would be enough to smooth things over. “Yes. I’ll be there.”

Astrid seemed satisfied and so Hiccup could breathe a sigh of relief, both for the notion of her happiness and his own self-preservation.

“I have to go,” Astrid said with a regret that sounded genuine. “Since you were absent, I agreed to a little field sport with Snotlout and the twins.” But her sincerity was ruined with a quip at his expense. She never noticed such things as it was typical for her to slip a little sour into her honey. “You could come, you know.”

“I know. I just…I should really get to the smithy, as much as I would love to watch you and Snotlout bruise up the twins.” His hands ran over the curve of her back—a muted apology for another absence. It was a preemptive attempt to mollify her.

She shrugged but would not look at him. “I’m not surprised.” She touched his chest but the passion in it was as flat at her voice. She shook her head again seeming to rebound. Her lips quirked upward and she leaned it, and Hiccup’s heart stumbled into a faster cadence. “Well then…”

They kissed, warm and healing. Their embrace was tighter in a more honest exchange.

Hiccup did not feel quite as morose as he said, “I love you.” He meant it, of course, but he needed her reassurance they were not going to slip back into a nightmare.

Astrid smiled and brushed the tip of her nose against his. “I love you, too.”

Hiccup felt a rush of solace to know they were still awake.

  
“Looking forward to _Vetrnaetr_ this year?”

The amusement in Gobber’s voice pricked Hiccup all over like a thousand Nadder spines. He set his hammer down irritably—pointedly loud so the other man got the message. His shoulders fell and he gave his mentor a rather woolly look that would have made his father proud.

Gobber, shameless as ever, chortled. “Wee bit of a sensitive spot, I take it?”

“You knew about it,” Hiccup accused.

“Eh, yer father might’ve mentioned it, yeah.” Gobber replied with a haphazard shrug that was inconsistent with his creeping smirk.

“I suppose you agree with him,” Hiccup said dully, striking the crooked strip of thin glowing metal to shape it.

“Not entirely. I told him if he wants yeh te learn te be Chief, he’s got te ease yeh into it—let yeh still have yer holidays, at least.”

“Obviously, he didn’t agree.”

“Obviously.”

Hiccup scoffed, feeling his right shoulder begin to ache with every swing of his hammer. He winced, like he could still feel the blade of three months past plunging into his flesh. He tapered the anger from his blows, lest he never hear the end of it from Astrid if he injured his shoulder again—all her warnings about overdoing it would be validated. Although, to be honest, he had found returning to such physical work therapeutic for restoring range of motion.

“He wants yeh te be a success, Hiccup,” Gobber explained—the long suffering translator between father and son. “Figures he should give yeh as much time as he can fer that.”

The first section of Inferno’s retractable blade was shaped. He doused it in a bucket of water, quirking his eyebrow at Gobber through the steam. “Because he’s going to die any day now?”

Gobber’s own brow was bowed in a pitying arch. “Because he doesn’t want te fail yeh.”

Hiccup felt his breath catch. Gobber could away find the right words for the most effective emotional snare. Hiccup glanced down thoughtfully into the cooling bucket where his project still sizzled.

“He wasn’t always so…adamant about it.”

“Yeah, well, before yeh were so…” Gobber trailed off, his vague gesturing frozen from Hiccup’s weary stare.

Another day, another quip about his lean, twiggy build. He was still a fishbone, only for a larger fish.

“Still, I suppose there are worse things,” he mused. “He could have sprung something like this on me months ago.”

To think of training for chiefhood while he barely held himself together, trying to focus on leadership when he wanted to throw himself into the sea.

“Ha! Right! Back when yeh were, _‘Oh no, I’m fine. I’m not pinin’ away over Astrid! No. Fine.’_ Yeh were the most not-fine person I’ve ever seen.” Gobber’s hands, real and wooden, flailed wildly and Hiccup suddenly felt self-conscious about his excessive gesticulating.

He smile though, taking Inferno’s new part from the water. He set it on the anvil with a small chuckle. He supposed he could finally look back and laugh at it all. He could be self-deprecating when things were so secure. His relationship with Astrid was a sure thing, and all those days of sulking under the pretense of apathetic disinterest seemed so distant and so ridiculous in hindsight. 

“I guess some things don’t change,” he quipped and Gobber snorted, fluttering his mustache.

“Aye, but some do. Like yeh and Astrid, eh?” the older man teased, leaning in with his large shoulders rounded and a devilish gleam in his eye.

Hiccup felt hot, but not from the forge. The bitter cold outside was almost inviting.

“Stop,” he muttered, fingers drumming on his anvil.

Gobber hardly knew the meaning of the word. He continued, “Those late night dates Stoick and I aren’t supposed to know about.”

Hiccup pinched the bridge of his nose. He held one hand up in a plea for his dignity. _“Stop.”_

Gobber waved his flesh hand dismissively. “Oh, yeh should hear him carry on like he was never young and in love. Granted, I don’t think he was rockin’ any beds right over _his_ father’s head, eh?”

The image of his father, lying awake in his own bed, glaring a hole through the ceiling, or cramming a pillow over his head to block out the rhythmic thumping, or creaking of the floorboard—whatever it was he heard–was enough to make Hiccup nauseous. Probably as nauseous as his father felt on the regular. 

Hiccup did not know if he could have Astrid in his bed again, knowing there was likely a grumpy chieftain reluctantly aware of it all. So much for being discreet…It was one thing to knew that his father knew and only tolerated the idea due to the circumstances, but to know that whenever he was lost in Astrid, his father knew? Well, maybe Astrid would not mind a temporary vow of chastity?

“Astrid and I are—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hiccup replied, and his ears were as red as a forge ember.

“And I wasn’t born yesterday,” Gobber retorted. “Young adults, in love, with workin’ parts! Yer father didn’t have te tell me anythin’ and I’d have guessed as much. Yeh shouldn’t be so modest about it—not with me anyway—yeh won her, didn’t yeh?”

“Astrid isn’t a trophy, Gobber. I only did what I had to do to free her from Stefnir.” Hiccup was thankful the conversation seemed to be climbing out of the hole the older man threw it in.

“Who got his happy endin’ turns out. I’ve never see so many garlands apart from yer father’s weddin’. Do yeh think the guy was makin’ a statement?”

Hiccup rolled his eyes. His grudge with Stefnir was over. “I think the Svenson’s are always trying to make a statement, but I couldn’t care less. He’s not my problem anymore.”

“I’m sure it will stay that way, unless yeh try te steal this wife, too.”

Hiccup held out his arms—a clear and indignant, _“Really?”_

Gobber grinned and hobbled toward the forge. “I’m goin’ te close up unless yeh plan on workin’ late. Moon’s high.”

Hiccup felt as though it was turning winter in his core as well. He whipped around and peered at the window. Indeed, the hour was late. He had somewhere to be and an engagement to keep.

“What? No! No, no!” He practically tore off his apron and nearly tripped over his cooling bucket. He could not face another bout of that blue-eyed disappointment. “I’m not staying I have…plans. I have to leave, I—Toothless!”

His dragon, napping in the heat of the forge, perked up at once. Ears high and pupils round, he was alert with the perceptible urgency. 

Hiccup left his Dragon Blade piece of his anvil. It would be safe. No one ever had use for any of his inventions save for himself.

He was already in the saddle as he tossed his leather apron into Gobber’s expectant hand.

“Right,” he said, eyes twinkling beneath that bushy unibrow. “Well, tell Astrid ‘hi’ fer me.”

  
“I’m sorry,” Hiccup whispered into the humid air between their lips.

It was almost ethereal, the way the silver moonlight played off the coiling steam and the rippling water. Astrid’s damp skin was illuminated, pale and otherworldly. She smelled like the night and she tasted like desire.

“Stop apologizing,” she muttered, gliding smoothly through the water to straddle him.

Her hair, unbound, clung heavily to her breasts and back, catching Hiccup’s fingers like netting. A shared, shuddering breath as she sank onto him was more articulate than words could have been. Hiccup’s eyes rolled back and he leaned forward, his forehead resting against hers as she moved in his lap with a tantric undulation. A siren of the hot springs, she had him completely.

“Shouldn’t have been late,” Hiccup murmured. A hand slipped beneath the water to the small of her back, where he could feel the power and command in her body with every passionate roll of her hips. She took her pleasure from him, and returned it in kind.

“What kept you?” she asked curiously.

“Sidetracked. Gobber, projects.”

Astrid continued her maddeningly sensual pace, braced against his chest, but something cooled in her touch.

“You need to make more of an effort, Hiccup,” she sighed. “With me, I mean.”

He frowned, pulling back to look past her rather than at her, and the spikes of arousal had lost their edge.


	2. Chapter 2

The clouds were distracting. The way they moved, billowing into one another, heavy and dark, seemed to forecast a burgeoning storm. Hiccup watched them dance overhead through the smithy window, tasting the salt in the air as the wind carried up Berk’s steep cliffs to filter through the village. There would be no flying Toothless when sky in such a dubious state. He sighed inwardly, glancing over at his crestfallen Night Fury who appeared to have reached the same conclusion.

“Are you even listening?”

Hiccup’s musings were dissected by a sharp, biting tone that made him flinch. 

“S-Sure I was,” He replied, smiling. 

Things between them had not quite returned to equilibrium since their late night tryst in the hot springs. He would not necessarily say Astrid was _angry_ with him, but she seemed of shorter temper and quick to chide him. It had been a while since he felt like he had to walk on eggshells around her.

She was watching him with narrowed eyes. He had been under her close scrutiny since she had sought him out, like she was waiting, keeping tally in her head of every time he messed up. There was some invisible score she was keeping and every rebuke was a strike against him.

“Right,” she muttered, picking up the first finished segment of Inferno’s retractable blade. She twirled it idly in her fingers. “So you’ll know all about how many new chores mom’s set for me?”

“You still think she’s punishing you causing a stir with the Svensons?” Hiccup deflected; he did not know. He had not been listening.

Toothless grumbled and rolled over by the forge, drawing Hiccup’s attention again. His heart went out to his dragon. He would rather be flying as well.

“No. Not punishing, exactly,” Astrid sighed. “She says she’s fine with— _Hiccup_.”

“Mm? Sorry.” He grinned sheepishly, but Astrid just tossed the piece of Inferno back on the workbench in a huff. It made him grit his teeth to watch it bounce unceremoniously across the surface as if it was some inconsequential thing he had not poured substantial time and effort into.

“I might as well be talking to the wall. Or Snotlout,” Astrid muttered. 

“I’m sorry, Astrid. I just…I feel bad for Toothless.”

“Of course. Your dragon…”

It was more a criticism than a simple observation, and Hiccup frowned, brow knitted. “Right,” he said, “and he matters.”

Astrid rubbed her forehead wearily. “I _know_ he does.” She leaned back against the wall and tried to smile, but it came out tense and lopsided. “I think the weather will clear up and you’ll still be able to fit plenty of flying in before Vetrnaetr.” Hiccup’s heart sank at the mention of the impending holiday. She added, “That’s one day and one night you and I have no other distractions.”

Hiccup’s heart sank even further. He had to tell her eventually, but Gobber was working only a few feet away and the man knew too much already. There would be a time and a place to suffer his girlfriend’s disappointment. Working in the smithy, alongside his nosy mentor, constituted neither.

“Sure, Astrid,” he replied.

She sauntered behind him and it made him go rigid. Her head on his shoulder filled him with equal parts happiness and guilt.

“Will you come with me—to the Great Hall? I would like some of that promised time… _away_ from the forge,” Astrid purred. Her hands wandered up and down his chest pointedly.

Hiccup’s shoulders fell. “I’m beginning to think you and Fishlegs want another buffer against Snotlout and the twins.”

Astrid clicked her tongue and pulled away. “It couldn’t possibly because I _like_ spending time with you? I’m starting to worry our entire relationship is doomed to be spent between this place and your bedroom.”

Gobber stopped hammering long enough to chortle and Hiccup felt his ears burn.

“Th-that is an exaggeration and…” he grabbed her by the arm and led her a few paces out of earshot, “ _please_ don’t go around announcing what we get up to. We really don’t need another scandal.”

Astrid folded her arms impatiently and arched her brow. She was unmovable and she was a Viking that did not accept defeat. It was much easier to yield to her than try to move a mountain, regardless of what his plans were—but there was that promise and their subsequent exchange; a lingering atmosphere of blame.

“Alright,” Hiccup conceded, casting the still unfinished pieces of Inferno a longing glance. “You win. Just…let me go get Toothless settled in before we get caught in the rain.”

It was a downpour, predictably.

Almost as soon as summer’s warmth retreated, dismal weather accompanied the cold settling in. It was further testament to Viking stubbornness that year in and year out, as the weather turned poor without fail, they remained on that tiny island, besieged by the elements, seeking neither fairer climate nor more fertile soils. They had chosen Berk, godsdammit, so generation after generation stayed rooted there. It did not matter the entire archipelago appeared to be bathed in a diffused gray, dulling all things to match Hiccup’s mood as steam rose up from the mud in the icy precipitation—the ground exhaled its last vestiges of warmth.

Muffled dragon roars joined the dirge of distant thunder and the relentless hiss of the rain. The village was quiet otherwise, partially faded by the thick droplets as Hiccup and Astrid scaled the steps to the mead hall. Truth be told, Hiccup would rather have been indoors keeping his dragons company than drenched, his teeth chattering—but Astrid had sought him out. Her words, accusatory and condescending, had been ringing in Hiccup’s head since they had parted ways in the night, unusually quiet, echoing his apparent inadequacy.

He _would_ “make more of an effort”, if that is what she required; she was worth it, if his shoulder was any indication. He would offer up the daylight hours he was not sure he could afford to spare, because what else was there to give? She was not one for gifts beyond the free weapon maintenance he gave her, much to Gobber’s vexation. He shared his thoughts, his affections. He did not know why it was not enough. He could only rely on Astrid’s suggestions on how he _could_ be enough. 

It felt one-sided, truth be told. She was already all he had ever wanted, and then some.

They reached the landing together, breathless and looking a little pathetic with sopping clothes hanging dark and heavy on their thin frames. Astrid grinned and brushed back her bangs and Hiccup managed a smile that was equally broad and somewhat forced. He was happy to be with her, really, despite a little recent bruising of his pride. His feelings for her were not diminished, but not burning quite as hot. They were no less powerful, but tepid in passion. He figured it was the unpleasant residue of a first disagreement tarnishing their otherwise easy relationship.

“I’m glad you came,” she said, and she was lovely, even with her bangs dripping into her eyes. “All my coaxing paid off.”

Hiccup rolled his eyes. “You didn’t _coax_ me. I tagged along of my own volition.”

Astrid pushed open the doors with a smug glance back at him. “Mhmm. I suppose when I gave you that warm hug, seeking your company so earnestly, had nothing to do with it?”

So, it had been an intentional manipulation of his sympathies? A deliberate move to play off his guilt and affections as only she could—for his betterment, she seemed to think. His brow furrowed. He was not quite sure when he had lost the right to be simply asked—when he given up the autonomy to make his own decisions about his own time.

“Your humility is the stuff of legend, Astrid,” he said flatly.

She turned, doors held ajar. The warmth and chatter of the Great Hall, wafting out with the aroma of stewing meats and ale. Astrid’s face was oddly shadowed in the glow from the fire pit and wall torches.

“It shouldn’t have to be that way, you know.”

But only because she wished it, he supposed.

He sighed. “Yes. You’re right. Bending to your every whim should bring me immeasurable happiness. I should leap at the chance.”

With a hand on the small of her back, he ushered her inside. They stumbled in clumsily as Astrid dug her heels into the floor. She jerked away from him.

“That is _not_ what I—!”

Already committed to their time together, rather than his own quiet pursuits, Hiccup was not interested in entertaining an argument between them. He spotted their friends and cut her off with a rather cheerful, “Oh, look. There are the others.” He caught Fishlegs’s and Ruffnut’s eyes and nodded with another disingenuous smile.

He could still feel Astrid’s indignation radiating from her stiff figure as they sat down with the other riders. No one else seemed the wiser. 

In fact, Fishlegs was downright bubbly to have finally have a worthy opponent for _hnefatafl_. Snotlout was sourly drinking away his defeat while the larger boy reset the board, assuming Hiccup would play. In all fairness, he usually did, but it was yet another expectation of him. First, he would assume more responsibility, he would be everywhere and everything Astrid wanted, and he would play a round of _hnefatafl,_ just because Fishlegs wished it. 

Hiccup accepted the match silently. Voicing his own desires was getting him nowhere as of late.

“You guys look terrible,” Snotlout commented in his usual tactless way of greeting people. He smirked at Hiccup and Astrid and the way their hair and clothes still dripped on the floor.

“It’s raining outside, but I doubt you’ve noticed. Exactly how long _has_ your ass been fused to that seat?” Astrid retorted.

Hiccup chuckled and glanced at his girlfriend, but she was glaring at his cousin and her posture was rigid. She was turned ever-so-slightly away from him, toward Ruffnut. Usually, he could feel her knee pressed against his, but there was a cold draft between them, blowing from Astrid’s shoulder. It was familiar, though he had not felt it for some months, and it stung with a pain he had not anticipated he would feel again.

The smile fell from his face and he turned back to the board game, assessing the move Fishlegs had made in his momentary distraction.

“Can you believe it’s almost Vetrnaetr?” Fishlegs asked, leaning forward with his eyes alight.

There was a time, when Hiccup was much younger, that he enjoyed the holiday with the same carefree effervescence as his friends—good food, music, laughter, and an infectious spirit that could make him forget, for a moment, his daily ostracism. Berk was one family, united in revelry and observance of their most sacred season. It was not as if Hiccup had ever been embraced by his tribesmen as he found a sort of solace in the forgotten corners of the Great Hall, overlooked in the flickering shadows cast by the central fire pit. For one night, he stayed out of trouble, content. For one night, he was not a disappointment. 

When he was fifteen, Vetrnaetr had never been better. He was not alone. He celebrated in the company of friends and his father occasionally regarded him with pride. He had Toothless and he had Astrid. A few drinks of ale and she kissed him again, like she had after the Red Death. Indeed, for a short time, at fifteen, he had the world. Then subsequent years had been spent making his appearance as the chief’s son, pretending to be enjoying himself before sneaking back home as the sight of Astrid with Stefnir Svenson killed any lightheartedness he had dared to feel.

It seemed he was finally in a better place again, only for his joyful holiday, long overdue, to become a chore. 

“Aren’t you excited?” Fishlegs asked, when he failed to get a reaction.

“Mm,” Hiccup replied vaguely, moving his a game piece to counter the other man’s last move. He did not look up.

“Think about it—dragon racing, ale, more dragon racing, more ale,” Snotlout sighed fondly.

“How is that different than any other day for you?”” Astrid replied.

She got a few laughs from around the table and Hiccup felt her shift back in his direction, but he did not have much support left to give. As he glanced beyond Fishlegs’s wide frame, he spotted his father in deep conversation with his uncle, and Hiccup felt his enthusiasm for the whole season evaporating.

Astrid shifted away from him again, a bit pointedly.

“I think the junior dragon race is a great idea. Whose idea was it?” Fishlegs asked from what sounded like miles away. “Hiccup?”

A sharp nudge beneath the table captured his attention with a start. It was an involuntary connection between his eyes and Astrid’s pale, blue judgment.

“Glad you’re back with us—that you could spare a moment of your time,” she huffed, and Hiccup immediately felt himself bristle. 

Without thinking, he opened his mouth for a sarcastic comeback, but Fishlegs spoke up again, proving just how dense the others could be. “Whose idea was the junior race?”

“It was Astrid’s,” Hiccup answered, and he did not intend to sound so dull. “I thought it was pretty brilliant.”

“Yeah, one of the few ideas he’s ever actually listened to,” Astrid added, and to what end, Hiccup did not know, only that she sounded smug, and he had the sneaking suspicion he was meant to be offended. Her teasing smile did nothing to ease the burn with her body still angled away determinedly.

“I, for one, am all for watching little children beat the piss out of each other,” Tuffnut cackled.

“Their race is going to be milder,” Hiccup replied, “and I don’t think we’ll have them catching sheep. Something smaller. Maybe even just painted dummies.”

“ _Pffft_. Where’s the fun in that?” Tuffnut scoffed.

“How can they really know the thrill of dragon racing without the threat of broken bones?” Ruffnut asked.

Hiccup stared at them both sardonically as Fishlegs made his next move. When Astrid had first suggested the idea, Hiccup had some reservations, assuming her line of thinking was not too far off from the twins’. He would not have put it past his rough and tumble girlfriend to believe a little brutal contact sport was the thing young Vikings needed, but the more she explained the idea, the more he liked it. Astrid had been the one to encourage him to pitch the idea to his father, and it had been well-received.

In fact, Astrid was his source of encouragement behind most things. He hoped this first spat they were having—and he hesitated to even call it that—was just another symptom of the changing seasons, augmented by the abysmal weather outside. Hopefully, it too would pass, fading with the heavy gray clouds.

He moved another game piece then reached for Astrid beneath the table. She stiffened with the first brush of his hand against her thigh, but as he laid it determinedly on her knee, he felt her place her own hesitantly atop his. Slowly, she turned her body toward him and inched a little closer. He was not naïve enough to believe things were resolved, but perhaps for a moment, he had stopped the bleeding.

“So you’re organizing both races then?” Fishlegs asked.

“For now, it would seem that way,” Hiccup answered.

Astrid cocked her head to the side. “For now?”

Hiccup’s gaze flickered toward the high ceiling, grappling with whether or not to even delve into the unpleasant topic of his upcoming responsibilities.

“I have a lot of…work in the coming weeks. I may not have the time to be as involved in the more…fun aspects of festival planning, unfortunately,” he explained. Vague again, but hopefully sufficient.

Fishlegs shot him a sympathetic frown, then furrowed his brow as he pondered their game. Hiccup sighed—no reaction would have been more satisfying than a halfhearted one. Snotlout and the twins were not even listening, too busy with a spontaneous belching contest, and Hiccup kind of preferred their disinterest. He could vent without anyone caring to offer any follow up questions—but Astrid had heard every word, all he had said and half of what he did not.

“So this is more busywork than you just pouring all your time into some project instead?” she asked.

Hiccup withdrew his hand from her leg, clenching both his fists on the table top. Perhaps that was her way of seeking clarification, by being so abrasive she rubbed off every layer to get to the truth she wanted.

“ _Yes_ , Astrid. I do have other things on my mind every now and then. I’m sure that’s absolutely shocking.”

Her jaw clenched and the other riders turned to them, wide-eyed, with bated breath. They were never interested in relationships it seemed, unless things got raunchy or dramatic. 

“Trouble in paradise?” Ruffnut asked, almost gleefully.

Even Snotlout considered them over his mug, eyes shining with amusement.

“We’re fine,” Astrid snapped. Then, with a commanding hand squeezing Hiccup’s knee, she whispered, “A word, _babe?”_

She rose to her feet as if the matter had already been decided. The choice to decline the impending argument was not really a choice at all.

Hiccup sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Fishlegs,” he said. “I guess Snotlout will have to take over from here.”

“Yes!” his cousin whooped, scooting closer. “Rematch!”

Fishlegs, on the other hand, looked a little deflated. Hiccup was supposed to stay, be a friend, keep him company with intellectual stimulation. He always expected as much.

“Snotlout, I’ve already positioned your pieces for the win. Try not to lose in spite of that,” Hiccup said. 

His cousin flashed him a rude hand gesture. 

Hiccup had a comeback, but Astrid was already dragging him away resolutely. Manhandling was not anything new and her forcefulness had never been much of an issue. He had come to expect it with mild exasperation. It was usually meant to get his attention or an unintended result of her enthusiasm—but, as she dragged him across the Great Hall, in view of their tribesmen, it ceased to be so harmless. There was a bitterness in her grip and an authoritarian cadence to her stamping feet that was anything but innocent. It communicated, if nothing else, she believed she was in control and completely in the right of an argument they had not yet had.

“Astrid, stop!” he protested, trying to wrench his arm free. “Astrid, _please_.” But his tone was not pleading. He pulled loose from her grasp and she stopped abruptly, spinning around with a look of self-righteous aggravation. Hiccup eyed her warily, massaging his wrist. “You don’t have to be so…physical, to get me alone to talk.”

“Lately, that seems to be the only way I _can_ get through to you,” she huffed, rolling her eyes for added insult.

Hiccup scoffed. “If this is still about yesterday—“

“No, Hiccup. It’s about every day. It about how you always seem to be either mentally or physically somewhere else. You don’t listen—“

“I do listen! You told me yesterday I needed to be around more—make more of an effort—and here I am. What more can I do?”

Astrid put her hands on her hips impatiently. “How about not waiting until I have to nag?”

“So I _am_ expected to read your mind then?” Hiccup retorted sarcastically.

“No, but it would be nice if you gave it a little more consideration!”

“What are you…?” Hiccup trailed off, realizing surrounding conversation had grown quiet. Sidelong glances met his before disappearing back into food, drink, or games, but there were two sets of eyes that did not look away.

Stefnir Svenson and his new young bride were watching their disagreement indiscreetly. Stefnir was not exactly grinning, but there was something smug in his eyes that made Hiccup’s stomach churn, especially with the way his gaze lingered—deliberately, Hiccup suspected. Stefnir’s young bride seemed clueless, leaning into him as if she needed his interpretation, as if he had all the answers. How he must luxuriate in being deified by some impressionable, dependent girl. His dream, finally realized.

“Let’s take this elsewhere,” Hiccup told Astrid’s, eyes flickering pointedly in Stefnir’s direction. “I think this is better left private.”

Astrid puffed up when she saw Stefnir, who took special care to nod to his former intended before wrapping an arm around his wife. He did not break his stare with Astrid as he kissed his simpering spouse.

“Ugh. Fine,” Astrid agreed, and Hiccup never thought he would see the day Astrid regarded another Hooligan with more disgust than Snotlout. “Archive?”

“Yeah.”

Stefnir watched them leave with a lazy grin. Hiccup could feel those eyes on him as he and Astrid disappeared among their other tribesmen, who were bustling about for a drink. 

They ducked into the archive and Hiccup still felt his pulse rushing from Stenfir’s silent sense of vindication. That man looked for any inch he could stretch into a mile, not that a candid moment’s frustration between lovers translated into a crumbling relationship.

No. He and Astrid were _not_ crumbling. Maybe they were a bit cracked, but it was about time for a little head-butting, was it not? By all accounts, it seemed like a normal, healthy thing…

So, why did Astrid’s tense body language make him feel so ill?

She did not waste any time, rounding on him as soon as the door fell shut. His back was against the wall whereas Astrid had the entire room to fill with her anger. The upper hand was clearly hers.

“Hiccup, have you lost interest in us?” she asked, lips pursed. Her eyes seemed cold, but there was some hurt beneath the topmost layer of frost.

Hiccup blinked. The entire notion was not easily processed by his brain, and his bad shoulder twinged emphatically. Under no likely scenario could he imagine not being interested in the woman he had fought and bled for. The idea was absurd, though Astrid seemed convinced.

“ _What?_ Wh-why would you even think that?” he retorted. “Because I spend a few more extra hours in the forge than you’d like? I-I guess I missed the part where we’re supposed to be joined at the—“

She waved her hand flippantly. “It’s more than that, and your obliviousness kinds of proves my point.”

“Well, I would attempt to explain myself if I knew what your point was,” he responded flatly.

“When I talk to you, half the time it’s like your mind’s somewhere else. You don’t…make an effort. I have to plead and badger you, and I don’t like doing it.”

Hiccup scoffed, running a hand through his hair wearily. “Really?”

Astrid scowled, arms folding across her chest. “Look. I can’t carry this relationship on my own.”

It was then that her entire perception of him was laid bare, and through the rushing indignation, he could only snap, “I have other things on my plate right now, Astrid.”

“The sword,” she sneered, with a new and candid disdain for his personal, time-consuming project. A product of his interests, which had not changed over all the years they had really known one another— _thought_ that they knew one another.

“Besides that!” Hiccup argued.

It was as if she felt his entire life revolved around nothing else. She did not know he was leaving for a week. She did not know Vetrnaetr was no longer a cause for celebration in his eyes. She had no idea of the harrying juggling act between her needs, his father’s expectations—Hel, everyone’s individual expectations—and the interests that kept him content and sane. He was Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, the chief’s son, the Pride of Berk, the friend, the dragon-expert, the master smith, the lover, the problem-solver, at everyone’s beckon call except his own. 

“My dad, he…” 

“What, Hiccup?”

But he could not finish the thought as Astrid stared him down expectantly. He was not even certain she would care, likely accusing him of more excuses. Why make himself vulnerable when she was already on the attack?

“I’m the son of the chief. That doesn’t come without its headaches,” he told her.

“Is that really your excuse?” she replied, turning up her nose.

 _‘And the prophecy is fulfilled,’_ Hiccup thought bitterly. He shook his head, taking a step forward before Astrid’s volley of blame forced him to merge with the wall behind him/

“It’s not an excuse. It’s reality, but please tell me, what part of reality would you like me to change for you?”

She was taken aback, but no less offended. “I don’t even know what you’re—“

“Or is it me that you want to change?” he asked hotly.

The resulting few seconds of resounding silence were the most nauseating, yet enlightening, discomfort. He nodded affirmatively with an incredulous laugh, and Astrid began scrambling for a suitable response.

“I’m not trying to _change_ you, Hiccup. I’m…I’m trying to…make you better. Like I always have. I’ve always tried to encourage you to do more. How is this different?”

Very. He could prattle on about how personal her chiding was, and how he failed to see the spirit of encouragement in it. He could tell her how her demands did little to benefit him, and all to benefit her instead. He could remind her he was still the same person he had always been. He could dare to suggest their time apart had fundamentally changed the dynamics between them. 

But he was tired, seeing nothing but a circular argument in which she made her complaints, but offered nothing more than the firm belief he was being complacent and could do better—for _them_. 

Funny how, until the day before, there was never any problem as far as he could tell. Then, it was as if Astrid was trying to tell him he had given up in her eyes, when he tried nothing more than to appease her by holding tighter.

Hiccup had stopped fighting losing battles years ago.

“Okay, Astrid,” he sighed, turning for the door.

“Okay? Is that all you have to say?” she scowled.

“No, but I think it’s all you’re capable of hearing at the moment, so—“

“Hiccup, don’t run away—not from this. I don’t want to leave things unsettled.” Astrid reached out, gripping his shoulder angrily. His right shoulder.

When her fingers curled inward, searing pain raced down the length of his arm and stabbed him beneath the clavicle. He cried out and all he saw was black, and all he knew was agony. Still healing there, his nerves were raw, and it was all a debilitating mass that Astrid had disturbed like a beehive.

He tore loose from her, angling his shoulder away and falling back against the door. They both stared at each other, wide-eyed and breathless. 

Finally, some sympathy and understanding shone in Astrid’s eyes. She took a step toward him, fingers outstretched in delicate sympathy. “I-I’m sorry, babe. I—“

It was too little too late.

“Yeah,” he murmured, almost drowned out in the noise of the Great Hall as he pushed open the door. “Me too.”

  
It had been a quick goodbye to his friends, never mind that it was still raining, and never mind Fishlegs’s pleading look after another easy win against Snotlout. Hiccup shoulder was aching too severely and he could not concentrate through the whirlwind of furstration. He would not have been very pleasant company.

He made a beeline for the double doors, catching one last sickening glimpse of Stefnir’s intent and calculating face.

The sky had grown darker still, and Hiccup did not care he was drenched by the relentless downpour. His wet clothes were an icy compress on his shoulder. The only real nuisance was the mud caking on his prosthesis that would require thorough cleaning.

He burst through his front door, took the stairs up to his room two at a time, and startled his dragons as he strode into his room, unannounced. Toothless bolted upright, and Hiccup muttered a halfhearted “Hey bud” before flopping down onto his bed, defeated.

He folded his arms over his forehead, breathing deeply. His mind was filled with Astrid, but it was not a pleasant thing. The very thought that she wanted him to change, that he was not good enough as he was, had his mind reeling and his heart in a vice. Granted, she had not said those words exactly, but the confession had been there in the heavy silence.

He could hear the floorboards creak and the rasp of Toothless’s tail over the wood as the Night Fury approached his bed. Somewhere above his head, the scurry of Terrible Terror claws made him smile faintly. 

Dragons were so much simpler than women. All they needed was food and flight and enough attention to know they were appreciated. They did not expect every waking moment to be spent with their humans and they could occupy themselves if need be. Toothless and Sharpshot never asked or expected anything of him beyond his capacity. They were perfectly satisfied with who he was and the bond Hiccup had formed with Toothless bordered on an unconditional love. He could no more reject the dragon than he could reject a physical part of himself.

Hiccup sat up, meeting large eyes. Toothless warbled softly and the degree to which he feel empathy never ceased to astound Hiccup.

“I’m alright, Toothless,” he said, but the dragon looked about as unconvinced as he felt. The large scaly head tilted forward, snout almost pressed to Hiccup’s chest. “I’ve got you, bud, no matter what. Things aren’t all that bad.”

The Night Fury warbled softly, and Hiccup leaned forward to wrap his arms around Toothless’s neck in a loose embrace.

The dragon was, and would always be, an anchor point in his life. Silent, but expressive in ways Hiccup understood on a very deep level. Conversation with Toothless was easier than it was with any human being. The dragon was part of the lens with which Hiccup viewed and understood the world—the only lens he had anymore, since Astrid failed to remain as constant as he had hoped.

As long as he had Toothless, he could survive anything.

“Thanks,” Hiccup murmured.

Toothless growled and nuzzled him, nearly knocking him over.

“Alright, alright!” he chuckled, pushing the dragon away. “You’d think I never gave you the time of day.”

Toothless made a sarcastic snarl and Hiccup shook his head, rising to his feet. “Yeah. You have it _so_ rough.”

He nudged past his Night Fury, who purposefully nudged him back. They shoved and prodded each other until Hiccup made his way around the foot of his bed to the trunk he kept there. He pulled out a dry set of clothes and began stripping off his wet layers, shivering a bit as his damp skin met the cool air. He had just sat back down on his bed and removed his prosthesis when another set of footsteps fell heavily on the stairs. Hiccup frowned, the his father’s austerity preceded him into the room.

The chieftain only knocked twice before throwing the door open. Stoick the Vast, plenty accustomed to missing limbs, always looked a bit uncomfortable to see his son without his leg. Maybe it reaffirmed Hiccup’’s incompleteness in his eyes? Or perhaps Stoick viewed peg leg and stump care as a fiercely private thing?

He cleared his throat and fidgeted as if he had walked in on Hiccup doing something far less innocent. Hiccup just stared back at his father, exasperated, as he clutched his metal leg in one hand, cleaning the mud from it with a cloth.

“ _Dad?_ ” he asked, saving the large man from his embarrassment—though he felt his father should be more flustered over the way his own proud beard hung pathetically, soaked and frizzy from the rain.

“I need te talk te yeh about temorrow,” his father said in that deliberate way, like he was already prepared for an argument.

Hiccup quirked an eyebrow, searching through his memory, which was a bit of a jumbled mess at the moment. “What’s…tomorrow?” If he recalled correctly, they were not set to sail for Helgafell for a few more days.

“In the mornin’, ye and I are goin’ te visit Sven. He’s providin’ us with the sheep fer the offerin’ at Helgafell.”

Hiccup blinked. It did not add up. “And I need to be there…why?”

“Yer goin’ te help me select the animal—see what goes inte choosin’ a proper sacrifice,” his father explained.

Hiccup’s stomach clenched. “Can’t we just…choose the sickliest one and call it a day?”

Stoick sighed heavily, drawing his hand over his face and gazing at Hiccup with all the patience of a man regarding the town fool. In many aspects, Hiccup was very knowledgeable—somewhat an authority—but traditions and the responsibilities of the Chief always threw into stark relief the chasm of misunderstanding between his father and son.

“No, Hiccup. We can’t pick one sick or lame. What kind of insult would it be te the Dísir to offer them anythin’ less than our finest sheep?”

“A practical one. Like, ‘Hey, sorry. I can’t imagine why you’d need our best sheep. I think he can serve us better here, though’,” Hiccup answered lightheartedly.

“Hiccup…”

His father stood there, staring him down in the infuriatingly paternal way that told Hiccup the argument was already over, and he just needed to concede the point. They could be locked in a stalemate over their more stubborn disagreements, but Hiccup had used up all his resolve with Astrid.

“Yeah. Fine, dad,” he resigned, cleaning his leg more deliberately. “I’ll come along.”

“Thank ye, son. Fer bein’…understandin’.”

Hiccup glanced up with a sardonic smile.

“Was it ever going to be a choice?” he asked.

His father ignored him in typical fashion, turning for the door. He hesitated, and Hiccup felt that familiar sense of foreboding. More bad news saved for the very end where it would do the most damage and yet the man could still flee. Gods forbid they ever spoke candidly and actually resolved anything. It might require feelings.

“One more thing about Helgafell…” Stoick inhaled bracingly and Hiccup squeezed the muddied cloth in his fist. “No dragons.”

Those two words that hit with the force of plasma blast, stirring up an internal cloud of panic. “What? No! Dad, _why?_ Can’t Toothless just—?”

Stoick squared his shoulders. “The best defense fer this island and our dragons is te closely guard our secrets about them.”

Hiccup shook his head, rising a little from the bed in protest, as much as one leg would allow. “We’ve kind of let the dragon out of the cage on that, haven’t we? I mean, when you consider the Outcasts and Berserkers, and who they’re bound to have told—“

“And we mitigate the damage of loose lips by maintainin’ we have nothin’ te do with ridin’ dragons.”

Hiccup glanced at Toothless, mind working desperately to piece together some kind of solution. Something, anything to keep his dragon with him. He had not been separated from Toothless for years—since that first Snoggletog after the war. His dragon was a soothing presence and helped silence the background noise in his head—the chatter that seemed to fill him with all echoes of failure and self-pity that had plagued him most of his life.

“You want me to leave Toothless here for a week?” Hiccup scoffed, chest slightly heaving with incredulity. “By himself? Dad, please…I-if I took him out, only at night—“

Stoick was firm. “He’s not comin’, son,” he said with the chiefly air of finality. “Get Astrid te watch him.”

The very notion of leaving his dragon with his girlfriend when his relationship had all the smoothness of jagged glass made Hiccup want to pull his hair out.

“Dad!” he pleaded as the chief shut the door behind him. “ _Dad!_ ”

Like so many instances over the past couple of days, Hiccup’s complaints were disregarded in the resounding silence.


	3. Chapter 3

Astrid swore under her breath as her fingers caught in her hair. It was her second botched attempt to braid it that morning. Normally thought was not required for something so mundane and automatic, but her fingers twisted faster with her mounting guilt. Twice, they had snagged in a web of blonde, pulling as strands stuck out oddly. With a huff, she undid her messy work, feeling frustration mingling with the internal disquiet twisting her stomach in knots.

She had not seen Hiccup since he had fled the archive. Her full apology remained unspoken, gnawing at her while the image of her hurt and betrayed boyfriend replayed in her mind. She wanted to scream, throw and break things, though it would not diminish the disappointment in herself. Inanimate object would only be a stand-in for her own ego.

The last time she had seen Hiccup cower like that, eyes full of fear, was in the Kill Ring before he had learned to communicate with dragons—back when Meatlug was a fearsome thing. Sure, Astrid swatted Hiccup, or delivered a light punch to his arm when warranted, but she never caused him any undue physical pain. She could not imagine it. Hiccup was her lover and that had been a long and bumpy path for them to travel. To see him clutching his bad shoulder—an injury he had sustained on her behalf, no less—regarding her like she was some vicious dragon, not to be trusted, was the froth atop the yaknog that had been their relationship over past couple of days.

She had not meant it. Hiccup was hardly ever slowed down by injuries and she had simply forgotten. She could explain that to him. He could understand that—if she only hold his attention long enough…

Slower, deeper breaths calmed her enough to manipulate her hair into a presentable state. She pulled on her boots and grabbed her axe.

She hoped to find Hiccup, to sit him down a properly apologize and talk through whatever rut they were in. If she could not find him, target practice would suffice to work through her frustrations. It always helped to have a back-up plan when seeking Hiccup out, especially lately. He was distracted, flighty, and unreliable when it came to keeping dates. He was a leaf in a summer’s breeze, carefree and without direction. For someone as punctual and attentive as Astrid, she found her boyfriend’s scattered-brained tendencies baffling best, irritating at worst. Indeed, he only displayed any real focus on his own projects, which he apparently had all the leisure time in the world to tinker with. Then, Hiccup was a dragon on its prey, with a precision and mental fortitude that feel just short of his capacity at all other times. He was a two-sided silver coin, but could not be so easily flipped.

Yes, Hiccup was fortunate to be the chief’s son with all of its privileges, and perhaps he had spent too many years miserable to realize it. The two of them were finally together, his father was proud of him, his birthright was going to lead him to great things—yet he seemed to find a reason to shy away from it all—from her. She just could not understand it and she knew it exasperated her lover, like he had written out an entire essay on his inner workings, but it was in a language she could not read.

She, on the other hand, was in charge of assembling her family’s offering to the Dísir, and for sewing her own garb for Vetrnaetr—two domestic tasks her mother insisted were necessary to master. In the meantime, she still had to tend to Stormfly, her usual chores, and she would help her father by livening up the façade of their home. He would be too busy on the festival hunt. Food was always in abundance on Viking holidays. A shortage of meat and ale might have very well been the one thing that would cause Berk to revolt against a chief like Stoick the Vast.

It was not that Astrid could not handle the workload, but it left her only occasional breaks as Vetrnaetr drew nearer. She wanted to spend her free time with Hiccup, after everything they had been through, after three years of viewing him through a fog—obscured and haunting, just out of her reach. Their leisure time was now theirs, but Hiccup mostly invested it Inferno prototypes and whatever else he got up to when he was not tinkering or flying. Astrid could not understand what glowing, unfeeling metal had to offer him that she did not. She burned just as fiercely for him, but he spent his time staring at sketches on parchment. His hands, otherwise preoccupied.

She intended to search the smithy for him first, stepping out of her bedroom. If Hiccup was not off on Toothless, Odin knew where, he would likely be wasting more of his plentiful time hammering iron. She would have to speak louder to be heard, provided he was even listening to begin with.

He usually was not.

Astrid peered cautiously into the common living space as she crept from her room. Her mom was busy in the pantry nook and Astrid’s path to the front door was clear. She steady her axe over her shoulder and began a quick, stealthy pace across the room.

But her mom was every bit a Hofferson as she was.

“I have some items I need ye te pick up fer me this afternoon, dear,” her mother said, without turning around.

Astrid flinched and came to a stop, her shoulders falling in defeat. “Yes?”

“If ye will take some eggs te the Jorgensons fer me, te trade fer some butter, that would be helpful. Also, a pound of lamb from Sven fer tonight’s stew.”

Astrid committed the mercifully short list to memory. She should have known better than to ask, “Anything else?”

Her mother turned, wiping her floured hands in a kitchen cloth. Her brow was heavy and her lips were drawn into a tight, forbidding line that seemed to encompass her whole face.

“I’ve been meanin’ te say, yer father and I forgive ye.” The significant tone in her voice was anything but healing. Instead of a salve, it was a finger, prodding the still festering sore.

“Oh. Well. I’m glad that’s settled…” Astrid responded politely. Always politely, for she was a Hofferson, one of the few Viking clans with any social graces, and her mother was a caged tempest as much as she was, just waiting for an excuse to open the latch. 

Her mother shook her head and Astrid felt the forced brightness leave her features like a snuffed out candle.

“Far from it, though,” he mother said, and Astrid found herself wondering what more she could possibly be reprimanded for. She was a good daughter, supposedly. Nearly perfect—it was the “nearly” that would do her in. Her mother went on to explain, “We’re no longer bound te the Svensons. A blessin’, considerin’ they were a miserable lot—but it’s taken a toll on the family, goin’ back on our word. It doesn’t reflect well on us.”

“We didn’t go back on anything,” Astrid scoffed. She let her axe slip in her hand until the butt of the handle hit the floor with an austere rap. “Hiccup decided—“  
Older, greyer eyes narrowed in an ever-growing nest of creases. “There are some who say the two of ye conspired. That there be strong _reasons_ ye might do such a thing.”

Yes. Reasons—ones Astrid would not divulge but that sharp maternal scrutiny seemed to inherently know. There was some kind of mysterious ability older, more experienced women had simply sense such things. Was Astrid exuding a presence? A pheromone—detectable only to those women who had unlocked some kind mystic feminine energy?

“I didn’t encourage him,” she replied, dodging the weighted implication. But her pale complexion burned with the truth her mother undoubtedly saw. “I’ve already told you that. I don’t know how many other ways I can say it. When Hiccup gets his mind set on something, he doesn’t always see sense, but I won’t deny I’m happy with the way things turned out.” Her chest inflated. She would defend her relationship with Hiccup until her last.

Her mother waved a hand flippantly, as if brushing aside the bit of stale, old argument she had no interest in rehashing. “Regardless, yer uncle’s havin’ a hard time negotiatin’ the terms of yer cousin’s marriage te the Larsons. They seem te think agreements with our clan are…flexible and subject te sudden change. The Larsons are seekin’ more insurance from yer uncle that this arrangement will stick—that their family won’t be the next te suffer such grave embarrassment.”

“I don’t see why my circumstances have _any_ bearing on—“

“But they do, Astrid,” her mother said calmly, but with the faintest edge that discouraged any further disagreement. “Ye’ve always known that. What ye do reflects on all of us. Ye represent yer family every time ye step out that door. Right now, ye bring suspicion on us. That is just the way of things. Yer a smart girl and I know ye can understand that.”

Astrid cast her eyes to the ground, indeed feeling the weight of the Hofferson reputation forcing her into submission—like it always had, and like it always would. They were not jarls, so the family name was their wealth, their currency, and any tarnishing of it had to be dealt with.

“How should I fix it so I’m not such a disappointment?” she muttered.

“Ye’re not a disappointment,” her mother sighed, pulling her in by the shoulder guards and kissing her forehead that was strangely comforting and condescending in the way it was so wooden. “Not te yer father. Not te me. But now we have a crisis of reputation.”

“That I caused,” Astrid added, because she knew her mother wanted to.

Floured hands fell on matronly hips. “That yer father and I had a part in as well…” Her mother managed a cracked smile in as close to an apology that Astrid would likely receive for the terrible marriage they had tried to arrange for status. For more influence. For the wealth they did not have—as close to being jarls as they might ever hope to be.

Unless…

Astrid laughed dryly and shrugged her shoulders.

“So, what…I have to…marry Hiccup?” she teased, and she could not meet her mother’s eyes as she said it.

“That would be the plan, yes,” her mother answered. “Sooner rather than later.”

Astrid was dumbstruck. After the bubble of tension that had filled her house since she had gotten with Hiccup, since she had defied her parents and social norms in pursuit of what she wanted—most unbecoming for a Hofferson—her mother was outright saying that a marriage between her clan and the Haddocks was desirable. Almost a priority even, as if Astrid had not endured critical stares and loaded remarks in a concerted effort to displace parental blame on to her. Hiccup had been painted the source of the problem—though she was painted the instigator—and suddenly he had become the remedy.

“Isn’t that…up to him? To ask, I mean,” Astrid replied, though she doubted any such thoughts were in Hiccup’s head. Not lately. He was repelled by anything that even suggested responsibility, including the attentiveness of a committed boyfriend.

“Te ask, maybe, then it’s up te his father, mostly. And up te yers. But it isn’t quite as simple as that.”

Astrid’s brow furrowed. She set her axe down on the table. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t tell me ye never considered where Hiccup stands and where ye stand.” Her mother’s eyes were intense, boring the obvious into Astrid’s face as if she could not grasp the implication.

She understood perfectly. Heal the Hofferson image and patch the void of a lucrative marriage contract gone sour with better prospects. It could not be helped, she supposed. The older generation was still set in social norms of wartime necessities—social maneuvering for better survival. Calculated, as if Berk was one large table game. There were no more dragon raids, though. No outstanding threats that might prematurely claim her hypothetical husband, leaving her disadvantaged without the right connections to see herself taken care of. Berk had a hierarchy, and people lived and died by it still. The younger generation, with its leash loosened, did not see the virtue in remaining tethered to outdated norms. Not in a new world, still being shaped by their potential and gumption. Surely, there were new rules to be made and a more relaxed social order to establish.

“I really don’t think the Haddocks think that way,” Astrid remarked, folding her arms to ward off her mother’s plot.

“Hiccup might not, but his father does,” her mother responded. Astrid swallowed thickly. The division between her and Hiccup’s respective social classes grew more pronounced. Her mother deepened it with, “Oh, Stoick won’t push the lad into anythin’ as long as Hiccup is interested in ye. He feels he owes the boy too much. But if ye and Hiccup were not te last, the boy is ripe for a political arrangement.”

“Yes, I know that.” Astrid wished to the gods she did not—that it was her mother’s own wild imaginings, and the norms of a different village from a different time.

“Make sure he doesn’t lose interest, Astrid. I fear yer marriage prospects will dry up with Hiccup’s affections fer ye.” There was something pointed in her words, and Astrid wondered just how much the woman knew. Did mothers really have eyes and ears everywhere, tapping into the spiritual channels that ran through Berk? Could they commune with ancient and mystic forces to forever keep their children in line?

Astrid’s nails dug into her bare arms as she seethed, “Then at least I’ll still have my axe.”

She strode off to begin the day’s chores before her mood could be dampened any further.

The butter was last on the list, since Astrid did not make it a habit to visit the Jorgensons unless she absolutely had to. The cut of lamb from Sven was already back at her house, much to her mother’s approval. Astrid had dragged her heels on the last errand, trudging toward the Jorgenson family home with a heavy sigh. The longer she waited, the greater the chances Snotlout might be swerving through the sea stacks on Hookfang or burying his boredom in the mud of the north fields, challenging the twins to some contact sport. The filthier they became, the more they would enjoy it, and Astrid hoped the promise of bruises and grime called Snotlout away as she set about her chores. He was harmless, really, but an irritating troll nonetheless, and she was out of patience to spare him.

Thankfully, he was not home, and Astrid traded eggs for the requested butter, thinking herself fortunate until she turned back toward her own house. Lingering in her path was Stefnir and his friends—the former social circle from whence she had escaped. She could only imagine her misery if things had gone unchanged. She would have been standing beside Stefnir, laughing hollowly at his jokes, pretending his friends were a delight to be around while longing for the days her own desire mattered.

Thank all of the gods she was free of him. Pretending to care, to be infatuated, had never been her strength. Her hollow gestures had not gone unnoticed in the last few days before their engagement had ended. Eventually, Astrid would have grown too weary of the forced smiles and the affectionate lies she hissed between her teeth. On their wedding night, Stefnir might have ended up castrated. Not very conducive to the dutiful bearing of children…

He glanced over as her pace quickened. The jangling of her skirt caught his attention and she figured he must be attuned to it from those years of trying so desperately to keep her under his thumb. He spotted her, grinning like some sort of sly fox of whimsical lore. She could not help her own lip curl of disgust.

It was Hiccup’s way to avoid conflict, not hers. Her mild-mannered boyfriend often turned on his heel or ducked to the side whenever their paths crossed with Stefnir, dragging her along with him, but Astrid was too proud to do so of her own volition. Hiccup did not want to endure the other man’s ineffable smugness and invite further conflict, but Astrid reveled in every opportunity to stare Stefnir down, unperturbed. His life may have rebounded, but he had not beaten her in the contest of satisfaction. Her ex would not hold any sway over her actions then. He had lost her in a fair competition and it should be him scampering off with his proverbial tail between his legs. Without Hiccup’s situationally non-confrontational nature, Astrid would make it a point to walk tall past the man who still fancied himself more important than he was.

“Astrid!” Stefnir exclaimed all too jovially. He bounded over to her, the steam of his breath in the cool air giving off the impression of a dragon poised to strike. He left his friends without so much as a hasty explanation or excuse, far more interested in tormenting her it seemed. 

It was good to know his priorities were still the same.

“Don’t you have a wife to lord over?” Astrid huffed, not missing a step.

Stefnir only continued to grin in that superior way of his, like her contempt for him was nothing short of adorable. She contemplated a swift kick to his groin. Surely hindering his ability to procreate would only benefit Berk in the long run.

“You almost look domestic, carrying that basket,” he teased. 

He tried to peer into it and Astrid shifted it to the other arm like butter was something fiercely private.

“And you almost look blissfully married, standing there with your friends,” she retorted. 

Curious eyes followed the two of them as they hurried through the village, and Astrid felt her face burn at the unmistakable sign of gossip—women leaning in, trying not to glance at the formerly intended couple who, by all accounts, should not been seen together. Astrid moved even faster, feeling the ache in the crease of her hips and thighs as she all but sprinted. Stefnir kept pace rather easily with his greater height. 

“I _am_ blissfully married,” Stefnir replied.

Astrid scoffed, picturing the demure young thing often latched to his arm, youthful and naïve. “Seems like an awfully one-sided affair.”

“My wife knows her place,” he said.

Astrid shot him a sardonic smile, “Licking your boots apparently.”

Stefnir snorted, using his wide stride to cut in front of her, forcing her to stop abruptly before she collided with his chest. She took two steps back, the close proximity making her insides squirm. 

“Why don’t you stop the games?” Stefnir asked, frowning. “You’re far too bitter for someone who supposedly got the better deal.”

Astrid rolled her eyes. “I’m _not_ playing games.”

“Then Hiccup’s aware you’re stringing him along too?”

Astrid recoiled, eyeing him indignantly. A muscle twitched in her upper lip and the phantom blow to her gut was the not entirely misplaced blame weighing heavily on those words. Her fiery emotions betrayed her and Stefnir’s eyebrows raised in surprised.

“Oh. _Oh, he’s not_ ,” he mused. “No. In fact, are _you_ the one being strung along?”

He was far too giddy about the notion, completely unware he was digging up deeply buried insecurities Astrid was not keen to admit, not even to herself. They had not been there when she was still high of the initial excitement of Hiccup’s victory, but she had been distracted for too long, refusing to see what her mother saw. Hel, the village saw it too, most likely. Her penchant for tunnel vision when focused on any single goal had blinded her from the seeds of an uncomfortable truth being sown. In her desperate attempts to cultivate a reality she had envisioned for herself and for Hiccup, maybe she had overlooked some crucial details, so obvious to everyone else?

Color pooled in her pale cheeks, more from a nauseating embarrassment she could not bear for Stefnir to see. He was not privileged enough to look upon her weaknesses. She swallowed dryly and pushed passed him, taking care to bump him hard with her shoulder. 

“No one is stringing anyone else along. What are you even babbling about?” she growled.

Stefnir grasped her free wrist and Astrid wheeled around in the mud, wrenching her arm from him. She flinched at the shoulder as her fingers curled into a fist. The temptation to hit him was strong. Not only was he a completely contemptuous person, he was surrogate for her own self-directed frustrations. Striking him would be like punching the personification of her own failures.  
Her jaw clenched.

It was the first time she dared to think her once coveted relationship with Hiccup was anything less than worth it—that it could have been the misguided passions of youth.

The more Stefnir spoke, the deeper he pushed the proverbial knife. He was grinning again as he said, “I assumed Hiccup ended our engagement so the two of you could enter your own, but even now, three months later, you two remain…well, whatever it is you are to each other. How unprecedented. Whatever you’re selling, he’s not interested in buying?”

Astrid tossed her hair back, letting a whisper of cold air soothe her heated neck. “Watch yourself. I’m no longer obligated to be kind to you, and you’re wandering into dangerous territory.” She leaned in with eyes narrowed, but Stefnir held his ground.

“Why? The truth hurts?”

There was that irksome word again. _Truth._ Astrid was not sure what that entailed anymore, so when did everyone else become so certain?

“Look,” she hissed, the coils of her breath hopefully offending him as they assaulted his smug face. “I don’t know what you or anyone else _thinks_ they know, but Hiccup and I are doing just fine.” She pulled back, straightening up to magnify what little confidence she could muster. “Better than fine, actually. We genuinely enjoy each other’s company and we don’t need to be married to do that—something I think is lost on you, and everyone else for that matter.”

Stefnir had the audacity to chuckle, waving a flippant hand. “Yes. Your relationship is so secure you feel the need to stand here and defend it to me.”

That was another invisible arrow that pierced the fragile reassurance she had been building up around her relationship woes.

She glanced away, hoping to communicate disinterest opposed to self-doubt. “Did you _want_ something, Stefnir? Or do you just relish in being an incorrigible ass?”

“I just wanted to make sure it was all worth it. For you.”

She stared back at him, exasperated. “I’m not your concern.”

Stefnir shrugged. “I guess you aren’t Hiccup’s either.”

The chill in Astrid’s veins was more potent than encroaching winter. “How dare you—!”

“Do you even know where he is?” Stefnir interrupted calmly.

She fumbled for a minute, carding through her brain in case Hiccup had told her _something,_ but as was typical of late, she could not answer with any kind of certainty. “The forge. Probably,” she replied as if it was obvious. After all, he had been spending more time there than he spent with her. Stefnir, however, was disconcertingly _knowing_. She snapped, “We don’t keep tabs on each other!”

“I’m intrigued to see how far this goes—him being here.” Stefnir leveled his hand high above his head. Then, he dropped it level to his chest. “You being here. It’d be a first for this village, you know—a chief marrying so far below him.”

Astrid was nearly deaf from the blood rushing in her ears.

“I didn’t know you cared,” she retorted bitingly, because there was nothing more she could say.

Stefnir, satisfied, began to saunter off. “A lot of people care, Astrid.”

“Too many!” she called after him, but he just kept walking with a languid sway.   
Indeed, it seemed like she was as much the center of public concern as she had been when Hiccup had challenged Stefnir. Nosy neighbors were less than subtle, casting sidelong glances in her direction.

She stormed off, taking the longer way home that passed by the smithy. Inside, there was only Gobber, and she realized then that she did _not_ know where her lover was or what he was doing, and it was just more of the norm as far as her supposedly solid relationship was concerned. She was not sure what was more painful, the reality that she and Hiccup _did_ have some kind of wedge between them or that Stefnir had been right about it.

Astrid resisted the urge to throw the softening butter to the ground. 

Perhaps it was yet another sign of a doomed relationship when a dragon’s tracking abilities were better suited for locating a missing lover than one’s own intuition? Astrid had searched everywhere she could think of—the stables, Hiccup’s house, the Great Hall, the former Dragon Academy, the cove, the skies around Berk—before enlisting Stormfly to find her boyfriend. It felt like a defeat, finally yielding to her Nadder’s sense of smell and admitting that she was pitifully clueless about Hiccup’s activities.

It was getting harder to recall only a few days ago when she had felt so secure in her life’s trajectory. She never would have guessed that two years of heartache, of mutual pining away in an uncharacteristic desperation, could ultimately amount to nothing—that also those who had tried to warn her, keeping her on the straight and narrow path laid out for her could have possibly been right. That she, Astrid Hofferson, so sure and so put together, could have been so wrong about what she really wanted—or rather, what she really needed.

Hiccup had always been the answer to every question she dared to ask about her future. Not any of the heavy questions her mother emphasized, but the more satisfying ones—who would she always fly with, who would she always confide in, who would always have her back? No other name ever flashed in her mind, and she had been so confident in her own autonomy to choose her pursuits, in live and matters of the heart. What reason did she have to doubt her own romantic interests, then? So, she buried the nagging irritations. All of the things in Hiccup’s behavior that she found problematic, she ignored. She was not going to be wrong about him, because they were not wrong. It was nothing short of perfect when he kissed her or when things spiraled quickly into sweaty romps beneath layers of furs in the middle of the night. They had desired each other so ardently for so long that being wrapped up, flushed skin to flushed skin, had been enough to carry them.

For a while.

Then Astrid could no longer overlook Hiccup’s flightiness—his aptitude for losing himself in his own interests in spite of everything else. His mind wandered when she talked. He was late to scheduled dates and platonic rendezvous with friends, or missed them entirely. He sometimes listened but it was like he never really heard her. She had to go to him. He never came to her. Everything except the physical felt one-sided, and Hiccup resisted all of her efforts to point it out to him—to fix them. Excuses. He always had them. For someone who liked to tinker, he found the idea of improving their relationship particularly scathing. 

Perhaps she had been too proud to recognize what was really going on? It would not have been the first time she had blinded herself in self-preservation.  
But that did not seem like Hiccup, to use her.

It _did_ seem like him, however, to grow bored and lose interest.

Astrid shifted in her saddle, breathing shakily.

She would not go there. Rather, she would not let _Stefnir_ go there, nor her mother—not until she heard it from Hiccup. Despite their recent struggles, she owed it to him to talk, to give him a chance to explain and put things in context. If he even bothered.

Her stomach did a little flip as Stormfly glided over Berk’s lush pastures. Even in the colder months, they stayed resiliently green. On the brilliant, rolling expanses of fertile land, three Vikings stood out clearly among the tiny white puffs of sheep soon to be shorn. The animals bleated and scurried apart as Astrid landed her Nadder gracefully among them. Her heart pounded a little faster, but not from the same rush of infatuation that had once spurred it on. While the Chief and Sven nodded to her cordially, Hiccup stood beside his father with a peculiar expression on his face—one often saved for working out the twins’ antics. It seemed the light of youthful adoration had faded in his eyes as well.

“There you are,” Astrid said, dismounting her dragon.

Hiccup sighed inaudibly among the noisy livestock, but there was no mistaken the exaggerated movement of his shoulders.

“Here I am,” he replied flatly. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“Looking for you—nothing unusual.”

Hiccup gazed toward the mountains in the distance, nodding vaguely. “Mm.”  
Astrid saw Stoick nudge Sven from the corner of her eye and was thankful the two men ambled along to survey the flock.

“Why are you really here?” Hiccup asked almost immediately as his father was out of earshot. He was not angry, but he was clearly exasperated. It was as if he had not slept well, the shadows beneath his eyes obvious and sullen above his otherwise lively constellations of freckles.

“Looking for you, like I said,” Astrid said. “I was asked where you were and I realized I didn’t have an answer. I never really have an answer.”

Hiccup’s brow furrowed. “I don’t see why that’s a problem.”

And it was an answer typical of his whole scatterbrained approach to life. To her. He was dense, and Astrid wondered if it was determinedly so.

“No. Of course you don’t,” she huffed. “Just like you can’t see why being perpetually late is a problem, or being so unconcerned is problem. You don’t really listen—“

“Unconcerned?” Hiccup folded his arms, squinting. “ _How_ am I unconcerned? _What_ am I unconcerned about, Astrid? You come to the forge and—”

“The forge!” Astrid threw her arms in the air. Gobber’s shop was the center of gravity around which their entire relationship spun by Hiccup’s design and her own thinly worn patience with it. “Always the forge, where I have half of your attention. You couldn’t care less about—“

She stopped abruptly, thinking of her mother and Stefnir—the heavy cloud of expectations settling over her. She did not want to argue with Hiccup about it all then—to throw out the subject of marriage and status right there in the middle of the otherwise peaceful glen, so close to his father. Stoick had to know the current of Berk’s chatter. It was astounding Hiccup did not—or rather, it would have been if he were not the kind of person that preferred glowing metal and dragons to regular human interaction.

“About?” Hiccup pried, quirking an eyebrow.

“Forget it. I don’t see why repeating my problems for the umpteenth time would suddenly matter now.” And she would have been repeating herself to some degree. Her mother’s shrewdness was nothing new, nor was Stefnir’s subtle digs at her happiness, systematically testing for a weak foundation that would bring it all down for his sense of vindication.

“Your problems. They’re so many,” Hiccup replied dully, and Astrid bristled.  
The roll of his eyes was a clear comparison of their respective stresses.

“Don’t,” she snapped. “ _Don’t_ play the future-chief angle, Hiccup. It’s beneath you.” 

“Again, Astrid, what part of reality would you like me to change?” He rubbed his forehead, like he did when trying to impart some manner of wisdom on Snotlout or the twins. “What part of the truth is so terribly inconvenient?”

Hiccup could, when irritable, play a martyr as woefully pathetic as his cousin. It was a rather sanctimonious move, considering he understood so little beyond his own skewed perspective.

“How about the fact my parents have me on a short leash, that the entire village still looks at me like I’m some kind of troublemaker,” Astrid replied. She was nearly shouting, but she lowered her voice when she noticed the Chief and Sven turn curiously. The two men realized they were eavesdropping on a lover’s spat, and Sven quickly called attention to a rather plump sheep. “The name and the image I’ve built for me is falling apart because of you!” Astrid hissed, recalling her mother’s blame and the village’s whispered accusations.  
Hiccup’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline and Astrid grimaced, reining in her temper. Her hands found her hips but she glanced at Stormfly for the moral support. “Not that it’s intentional,” she continued. “I know that it’s nothing you’re purposefully doing. I’m trying to put things back to the way things were before—before the fight. Before Stefnir. Back when things were simple, when they made sense.”

Hiccup’s shoulder’s fell and he shook his head in a way that was so pitying—so condescending. “Things are different now, Astrid. We’re older, for starters. We both have more responsibilities.”

She raised a hand, indignation swelling in her chest. “Spare me the lecture, Hiccup. I’ve got enough on my plate as it is, and everyone’s got their opinions. I’ve heard more than my fair share about what I ought to do and how I ought to feel.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, but it was hollow. Compulsory. He probably did not even know why he said it, only that it was polite and he had the underlying desire to diffuse the situation.

“You know I’m essentially currency?” Astrid asked, thinking about what her mother had said, reducing her to little more than a bargaining chip for status. Hiccup was the ultimate prize but he was making himself unobtainable.

“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffed, lip curled like the very idea was repulsive.

At least Astrid was a little reassured that she was still a person in Hiccup’s eyes—not a play thing. Not a object to own. If only the rest of the village felt that way, but a woman’s place was a construct of generations of societal norms, born of a certain practicality and desire to survive.

“No, Hiccup. It’s not,” Astrid replied. Again, he failed to understand, because the world Hiccup lived in was one of his own design, separate from the world the rest of their tribe lived in, but with enough overlap to deem him sane. “You keep talking about changing reality. Well, that’s certainly something I wish I could change. I mean, do you even notice? Are you aware of the gossip going around? What the buzz is?”

“I don’t usually concern myself with—“

“And that’s your problem,” Astrid remarked, feeling validated. In the end, it kept coming back to the same thing—Hiccup was willfully ignorant. She concluded their relationship was, in fact, one-sided. It fed her sense of righteousness.

“You know, Astrid, my situation isn’t exactly ideal either,” Hiccup said, but he was merely evading the issue at hand.

“Oh, is it becoming particularly taxing, spending all hours doing whatever you want? Expecting me to just be there when it’s convenient for you, like I’m one of your projects?” she chided.

“If you think that’s all I—I’m very busy.” Hiccup gestured to his father, Sven, and the sheep. “I have to—!”

Astrid was not interested in his excuses. He always had them, but she _would_ hold him accountable. “I’m busy too, Hiccup. Do you think I just sit around, sharpening my axe all day?” 

He scowled. “No, because I do that for you.”

He had _no_ idea—cleaning the stables, tending to the chickens, learning to sew and weave and cook at her mother’s behest, tedious chores that took a great deal of time. She was the bridge between Hiccup and the other teens, maintaining lines of communication, delegating tasks related to dragons and what remained of their academy. On top of all that, she found time for physical training and Stormfly. For Hiccup. Somehow, he thought his struggles were the only ones that mattered.

“I have my chores. I have my responsibilities—usually picking up your slack. I still find time for you,” Astrid pointed out.

“Well, don’t you worry. I’ll be far less of a problem for you during the holidays,” Hiccup retorted.

He sounded resigned. Defeated. He was rolling over and playing dead to end the argument, and Astrid hated it. She wanted him to fight, to hash it all out. She wanted a resolution one way or the other and Hiccup’s tactic of surrender was not the same thing as solving the matter. She knew he considered himself in the right. It was another way to dodge the discomfort of trying by slipping behind a veil of self-deprecation.

“What are you talking about?” she asked impatiently.

Hiccup was rather monotone as he answered, “I’m leaving for a week. Before Vetrnaetr. During the festival, I’ll be busy helping my dad.”

Suddenly, all of the plans they had made and the perfect holiday Astrid had imagined—that she was hoping to recapture from years ago—went up in smoke. She had clung to the hope it could reset everything. What was worse is that Hiccup did not seem terribly upset he had shattered her fantasy. He just seemed tired.

It was a decisive blow, not in regards to winning the argument, but to Astrid’s resolve to keep fighting.

“Wait, what? You’re leaving? But we—I thought…when were you going to tell me?” she asked, feeling the fire with her quickly fizzle out.

“When you stopped berating me long enough.”

She sighed, unsure of what the point was, of standing her ground, of not climbing on Stormfly and speeding off amid a flurry of well-chosen swears. 

“Hiccup, I’ve only been trying to get you to hear me. To be more attentive. To care! Why does this have to be a chore for you?” she asked earnestly. She had lost sight of the point of it all—the bickering. She only wanted thing to be right between them. It had been blissful only days ago. How could they get it back? That was all Astrid wanted, because for that brief amount of time, things made sense. Hiccup made things make sense. Without him, Astrid was still herself, only set adrift in a violent sea of uncertainty. “It supposed to be easy. It was easy.”

Hiccup did not say anything, he just looked at her sadly, as if he was seeing the same widening fracture in what should have been their refuge from the world.  
“What about the festival preparations—the races?” Astrid asked, as if it might make him reconsider.

“I’ve already spoken to Fishlegs about it,” Hiccup explained. “He practically burst with excitement when I asked him to take over for me. I thought he was going to faint when I told him to watch over Toothless while I’m gone.”

Astrid was taken aback. Sure, their friend could handle dragons and would view the opportunity to look after Toothless as unfettered time to study the Night Fury without Hiccup hovering around. But there was something inherently insulting about Fishlegs being asked to watch Toothless instead of her. It would be like asking Snotlout to watch Stormfly. Having a basic capability to keep a dragon alive and fed was not the same as truly caring for the animal. Astrid was admittedly hurt that Hiccup had entrusted Toothless to anyone else. That was…that was significant. The dragon-related festivities were only an additional irritation. She was undoubtedly more organized at running things than Fishlegs.

“ _Fishlegs?_ You think he can handle all of that?” she asked, making no attempt to hide her bitterness.

“I was going to ask you, but you told me you were busy the other day. Your mother’s been particularly demanding,” Hiccup started walking backwards toward his father and Sven. He held his hands out. “I listened.”

  
The next few days were mechanical—as cold and lifeless as Hiccup’s inventions. Astrid saw her lover only briefly. They nodded to one another and conversation at mealtimes was shallow, much more reminiscent when they were _pretending_ not to have feelings for one another. 

But they were not acting then—not when their hands brushed, reaching for the same piece of bread at supper, and the resulting smiles were forced and without eye contact. They were not pretending when neither went out of their way to see the other in the remaining days before Hiccup was scheduled to leave. Astrid saw him in the skies, gliding silently over the village on his dragon. He saw her, chopping firewood and touching up the paint on her house as he trailed behind his father.  When their eyes locked, it made Astrid tense with that familiar hint of discontent that had once plagued them.

If anyone asked, they were fine. Of course they were! How silly it was to suspect anything different. They were Hiccup and Astrid. They were so much _better_ than fine. They were in love, after all. Madly so.

Astrid had to remind herself of that fact as she made her way down to the docks, skin pricked by the icy drizzle whipped about by a particularly nasty wind blowing in from the sea. Her pauldrons rattled on her shivering frame. Sails billowed as ships pulled against their moorings, yet the crew worked on, loading provisions. Thor would carry Hiccup’s ship quickly to Helgafell. That was certain. She had to find out his destination by casually asking around. They had barely exchange a word since their confrontation in the pasture.

They would speak then as she approached Hiccup. He admittedly looked regal, standing there watching Sven guide an obstinate sheep onto the ship with his arms folded, draped in fur and gilded decorations. Even with his auburn hair dampened into a dark brown, clinging haphazardly to his face and forehead, he was handsome—every bit the future Chief of Berk he denied he wanted to be.  
“Hiccup,” she said, just above the wind.

He gave a small start and turned. “Astrid,” he replied calmly. He betrayed no feelings about her presence there.

“I came to see you off,” she said. “It…it seemed right.”

“I…Thanks. You didn’t have to…thanks.”

She nodded and reached out for Toothless, scratching his jaw. The Night Fury seemed subdued, knowing something was about to happen and that he was not to participate. He crooned softly, nudging Hiccup uncertainly. His usually leather skin was slippery in the chilling mist.

“Are you sure you still want Fishlegs to—“

“It’s already settled,” Hiccup said quickly, not meeting her eye. Instead, he held his dragon’s gaze. “Sorry bud. I’m going to miss you.”

Astrid swallowed hard as her boyfriend embraced the Night Fury with sadness and remorse. He patted the dragon’s head and they shared a silent goodbye that was more heartfelt than whatever would transpire between her and Hiccup.  
For a moment, Astrid was jealous.

“I’ll be back in a week,” Hiccup said, finally turning his attention back to her, though he continued to stroke Toothless’s snout absently.

“I’ll be waiting,” she said.

Hiccup flashed another forced smile that was little more than an obligatory twitch of his lips.

“I have to get going,” he told her, picking up the sack at his feet. His green eyes lingered on her as he straightened back up. “Take care, Astrid.” 

It was also so wooden. So formal. 

It was absolutely maddening.

“I’ll write to you!” she blurted out in a final attempt to hold on to…to _something_.

  
“Uh, yeah. S-Sure. That sounds…fine.”

He leaned in like he was going to kiss her, but thinking better of it, he pulled her into an awkward one-arm hug. Astrid was no more comfortable with the contact, stiff, and patting his back awkwardly. He chin rested gently on his good shoulder, and it was then she remembered she had yet to apologize for hurting him. When he pulled away abruptly, she realized it did not really matter.


	4. Chapter 4

Three days had passed since the summer’s final cloudburst had doused away the remaining warmth of the fading season. Relentless rain should have left the ground muddy, soaking through boots and caking on everything—but winter had reared its ugly head. It was like a Snow Wraith, freezing everything in its path with a mighty gust from its nostrils. The ground was solid; cold and unyielding. It offered nothing of itself for most crops to grow. But, the summer harvest had been bountiful. Year in and year out, Berk made it through the harshest months. For that, Vetrnaetr was always a jubilant affair; a time to give thanks to the _dísir_ and appeal to their mercies for the next harvest.

Winter brought low-lying clouds, heavy with diamond dust. Berk was often consumed in an icy mist, hidden away from the rest of the Barbaric Sea—tapped in its own kind of hibernation and mystery. Ice floes formed a natural barrier that kept enemies out, but also kept the Hairy Hooligans in. For a season, Berk was sequestered, concerned only with itself. Almost as if the entire island went to sleep for a time, falling into a winter stupor when conditions were too unfavorable for regular work; the days too cold and short to accomplish more than what was necessary for survival.

Astrid exhaled on her hands, warming them with the swirling vapors of her breath. She rubbed them together vigorously before withdrawing them into the protection of her woolen cloak.

“Gotta love Berk winters,” Ruffnut said, nudging her. “It’s the time of year it’s far too cold for anyone to give a shit about anything.”

A pack of children ran by laughing with, waving their holiday colors, just to contradict her. Their juvenile dragons lumbered after them.

“Except the festivals,” Astrid sighed, gazing up at a Vetrnaetr banner being hoisted over their heads.

Bucket and Mulch waved from their ladders, and Astrid nodded politely. She kept her arms folded within her cloak, trying to keep the numbness at bay for as long as possible.

“And the festivals,” Ruffnut conceded. She sauntered closer to the stalls being erected in the village center; soon-to-be shops that would come alive with seasonal goods. “Food, drinking, and fucking. What’s not to love? It’s all very Viking, if you ask me.”

Astrid rolled her eyes.

“Well, I didn’t.”

Ruffnut smirked. She then turned to a series of broaches on display. Not yet for sale, they had been laid out in the dull, gray daylight, to be counted for inventory.

The shopkeeper was distracted, hollering at her husband as he hammered nails into the stall’s growing skeleton, and Ruffnut was nothing if not opportunistic.

Quick as a Nadder’s spine shot, she pilfered a rather plain broach from the very end of the line. It was a less conspicuous design, and therefore less likely to be missed. Astrid was hardly surprised, but plenty exasperated.

When the two of them were well out of range of prying eyes, Ruffnut held the broach in an open palm.

“A Hideous Zippleback! Talk about lucky!”

Astrid frowned. “You took it without even knowing what it was? Did you even really _want_ it?”

Ruffnut shrugged noncommittedly and pinned the decorative piece to her old, worn cloak.

“One of these days, I’m going to say something,” Astrid warned.

Ruffnut just scoffed. “Yeah, but not today.”

She had a point. There were other, more distressing things on Astrid’s mind than Ruffnut’s lifelong idiosyncrasies and questionable sense of morality. Most of Berk probably had an inkling than the Thorstons twins did not acquire a great many of their belongings by upstanding means. They were at the bottom of the social hierarchy—freemen of the lowest order. The Hooligan tribe held no slaves, but three hundred years ago, Berk was a different place with different values, and a different kind of nobility. Astrid had long suspected the Thorston lineage was rooted in thralldom and thus there was a lingering inability for the clan to marry much higher above its station—but she never asked, and Ruffnut and Tuffnut never spoke of it.

“No, the route marker needs to be higher!” came a whine that cut through her musings.

“Just because _your_ dragon can’t make sharp turns—!’

“Snotlout, you know she’s sensitive!”

The girls stopped in their tracks to watch Snotlout and Fishlegs bickering. While not uncommon, Astrid recognized a painted course marker often used in dragon races. It lay between them as Snotlout folded his beefy arms. He resembled a bear in all his fine, winter furs. Fishlegs, meanwhile, covered his dragon’s ears and pouted, but Meatlug seemed oblivious to the insult.

“I get to decide where we put it, Snotlout. Hiccup left _me_ in charge of race preparations and you know it,” he insisted.

“Just one more thing to add to the list of his bad ideas,” Snotlout retorted.

Toothless stood by, watching the whole scene with obvious boredom. It caused a sickening twist of in Astrid’s stomach to see the Night Fury dutifully shadowing Fishlegs. It brought back the uncomfortable goodbye on the docks, when Hiccup had been so distant.

Her lips tingled with thoughts of the parting kiss they did not exchange.

She missed him, but at the same time, she was furious.

He should have _known_ she would be alright to look after Toothless and to oversee the race setup. It was offensive that he believed giving Fishlegs the responsibility would make things any better for her. She was always Hiccup’s right hand woman, far better organized and efficient than the other riders ever were. Truly dependable. Sure, she had told him she was busy, but that was only a short term problem.

 As Vetrnaetr drew nearer, Astrid’s to-do list grew shorter. A greater vexation was her mother reminding her at every turn how she had poked holes in the Hofferson reputation, and that fixing it fell solely on her shoulders. She felt besieged by expectations, and she had hoped Hiccup would unburden her. Instead, he laid on more stressors, lost in his own thoughts, withholding his affections, with his head so far up his own ass he did not hear a word she said— _really_ said—and so he could not begin to understand the things she _did not_ say, but were no less important.

“I listened,” he had said that day in the pasture.

Astrid could laugh at that.

He was bright and intuitive, so he did not get a free pass. If he just extended his thoughts beyond what was right in front of him, if he stopped being so myopic…

_He should have known._

“Astrid! Ruffnut!” Fishlegs exclaimed, spotting them standing there. His face eased and his chest puffed slightly.

Toothless perked upon spotting Astrid. He bounded over to her with a gummy smile, and she felt a little more cheerful, sacrificing the protective warmth of her cloak to reach out and pet the dragon. As she stroked his head, she could not help but think he gave more of a damn about her than his rider did.

“Look at the two of you. Just like a married couple,” Ruffnut teased. She wrinkled her nose, mouth in a playful pucker at the two young men.

“Well, we wouldn’t have the headache if your boyfriend actually did anything that made any sense,” Snotlout huffed, brandishing a finger at Astrid.

It was a rare occasion whenever she agreed with him, but he had just brought the grand total up to five counts in recent memory. She would not let him know it, though.

“You wouldn’t have a headache if you could learn to be more agreeable,” she retorted.

“Says the girl who used to drive us into the dirt with her crazy training exercises,” Snotlout said.

“There’s one thing I sure don’t miss about the Dragon Academy,” Ruffnut sighed.

Astrid flashed her a rude hand gesture.

“I think we could use another opinion,” Fishlegs spoke. He narrowed his eyes at Snotlout. “Since we appear to be at an impasse.”

Astrid hummed in her throat, clasping her hands behind her back as she surveyed the immediate area with dramatic scrutiny.

“The suspense is killing me,” Snotlout muttered.

She took care to hit him hard with her shoulder as she passed by. The pauldrons beneath her cloak made for added effect. He scowled, rubbing where she had struck him, and she was smug—like old times.

“I don’t think you should raise the marker in this area at all. The elevation of the land here is going to make it hard to clear the houses without a tail or wing taking a shingle or two with it. You’d have to fly low and the buildings are pretty stacked. I’d move it someplace higher, and more level. Less houses.”

Fishlegs beamed before turning to Snotlout with a proud lift of his chin.

“Exactly what I said!”

Snotlout rolled his eyes. “Well, it sounds better coming from Astrid.” He turned to her, folding his arms again. His expression was far less complimentary. “Nice of you to actually grace us with your presence.”

Her face fell and she bristled. She sensed something unpleasant was coming, like catching a whiff of something foul in the air.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

Snotlout sniffed and rolled his shoulders. He took a step forward, gesturing around to the two other riders. “Oh, just that it’s been a good while since you acknowledged any of us exist.”

The words hit her but they did not sting like she had anticipated. The notion was so utterly ridiculous, she barked out a laugh. He was speaking his usual nonsense.

“ _What?_ ” she replied, her breath made staccato puffs with each chuckle. “That’s not true!”

Snotlout raised his eyebrows and Astrid glanced to Fishlegs and Ruffnut for support, still grinning at his lunacy. But, she found Ruffnut starring down at her grimy fingernails with knitted brows. Fishlegs patted Meatlug and cast her shifty sidelong glances with an anxious wobbling in his bottom lip. Even Toothless let out a soft, low warble that Astrid could not help but suspect was in agreement with the others.

“It’s _not_ true!” she insisted, feeling her cheeks flush a darker pink than the chill of the wind already provided.

“When was the last time we all hung out together?” Snotlout asked.

Astrid sputtered for a moment. “Just…Just yesterday, at breakfast—!”

He held up a hand to stop her.

“Alright. When was the last time we all hung out together _after_ you found yourself a man—Hiccup or otherwise?”

She stood there with her jaw agape, eyes darting from Snotlout’s stony face to the uncomfortable fidgeting of Ruffnut and Fishlegs, the two of them looking anywhere but at her.

Astrid swallowed thickly, folding her arms beneath her cloak. It did nothing to shield her from Snotlout’s accusation.

“Been busy,” she muttered feebly.

“Yeah. I bet. Breaking hearts is time consuming.”

Fishlegs tried to intercede. “Snotlout—“

Snotlout just snorted, making a sweeping gesture in his theatric way. “Oh, sorry. Was that a little too on the nose? I mean, two years of Hiccup moping and then she goes and strings Stefnir along until she drops him in the mud. It’s not like I like the guy, but—“

Astrid’s hand balled into a fist and she flinched toward him. Ruffnut’s quickly gripped her shoulder.

“Now, wait a damn second! It wasn’t like that, and you know it!” Astrid spat.

His eyebrows raised challengingly. “Do I? Then how was it, Astrid? Where was I off base? The part where you played Hiccup or the part where you played Stefnir?”

Astrid mouthed obscenities at him around clenched teeth. Perhaps more unsettling was the guilt and the self-doubt underlying her anger. There was a voice deep in the recesses of her brain that had been sitting there for months. She had ignored it. Gave it no audience. Still it lingered, and she had felt it biding its time until the right moment to leap forward and hit where it hurt most—her pride and confidence in the choices she had made; the choices she had suffered for.

She had hoped to never grapple with it, but Snotlout had poked her insecurity in the eye, and she was as disconcerted as she was furious.

“Now, now, you guys…” Fishlegs interjected again—but he was merely a kitten caught between two battling dragons.

Astrid stepped forward, straining against Ruffnut’s bracing hand. She could have easily shrugged her off, but Ruffnut was acting as her only tether to some semblance of decorum, and she had enough common sense left through the haze of her ire. Otherwise, Snotlout would have already been on the ground.

 As the doubt roiled up inside of her, she could only spout words of ridicule; deflect and pass on the blame. Refocus and attack.

“You know what your problem is? You can’t handle the fact I was never interested in you!”

Snotlout scoffed, shaking his head and posturing confidently. As dismissive as he tried to be, a muscle in his jaw twitched.

He fired back, “Seeing how you do relationships, Astrid, I’d say I dodged a Plasma Blast.”

If there was some proverbial belt, Snotlout had just hit below it.

“My relationship with Hiccup is a perfectly good one!” she snapped, sounding too shrill; too desperate to convince him—to convince herself.

“Oh, right. That must be why he entrusted his dragon to Fishlegs and put him in charge of the dragon-related preparations?”

Astrid’s face was burning then, and she felt hers hands shake. Her chest grew tight with a myriad of emotions—sadness, self-pity, bitterness, and resentment, just to name a few. She glanced at Toothless and the dragon just stared back at her, reading her with an unsettling intuitiveness. 

She was unable to hit Snotlout with a comeback, reeling with her vulnerabilities spilling out on the frozen ground before her friends.

“Thanks for the advice on the course marker,” he said with a satisfied smirk. He lightly tapped Fishlegs in the shoulder with his fist and his backhanded fraternity. “Let’s go, Fishface.”

Fishlegs gathered up the marker with a parting wince of apology. Then, with a jerk of his head, he muttered, “Toothless.”

The Night Fury hesitated, glancing between Astrid and Fishlegs with great confusion. His ears dropped and he crooned softly, pupils rounding plaintively, but he went with the young men as _Hiccup_ had instructed him to do. Astrid watched him go, feeling the indignation and hurt raging in her along with everything else.

“Well, that sure was interesting,” Ruffnut commented.

Astrid spun on her heel and stormed off. She could no longer feel the cold in the air through the heat of her humiliation. Her fur-lined cloak whipped about her ankles and her skirt jangled with each step, proclaiming her anger to anyone within earshot.

Ruffnut groaned and chased her down.

“Come on, Astrid!” she said, half-jogging to keep up. “When has Snotlout ever been worth the trouble?”

“Why did you hold me back?” Astrid snapped. Though it had been a wise decision, she was looking to lash out. 

“As fun as it would have been to watch you tear his throat out—and I mean, _really_ fun, the blood and all—I just…” Ruffnut’s pace slowed as she struggled to find the precise wording. She smiled, trying to lift the mood immediately punctured by, “I don’t want to say he has a point, but…”

Astrid stopped abruptly. “ _So you’re on his side?”_

Ruffnut rolled her eyes. “I’m not on anyone’s _side_. Just because you haven’t been around doesn’t mean you didn’t have your reasons. I’d say, with Stefnir, you had two pretty decent reasons, am I right?” She wiggled her eyebrows and flexed her lanky arms.

“Stefnir’s an absolute ass!”

“Okay, sure,” Ruffnut conceded. “But he’s a pretty _fine_ ass.”

Astrid growled with disgust and took off in another furious march.

“I was joking!” Ruffnut called, bounding after her again, long braids swinging wildly. “To be honest, I don’t care where you’ve been or what your reasons are—even if it did doom me to a total sausage fest.”

Astrid slowed her stride, softening a little.

“I figured you’d always find your way back. I couldn’t see you avoiding dragon races forever. Not with your need to show everyone how damn perfect you are.” Ruffnut grabbed her by the arm.  “No. What I find strange is that Hiccup entrusted Toothless to Fishlegs. That dragon means more to Hiccup than his one good leg and he didn’t ask _you_ to look after him.”

“Is there a question in there, somewhere?” Astrid grumbled.

Ruffnut pursed her lips and surveyed her with narrowed eyes. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Astrid’s threw her hands in the air in exasperation. “Is that all anybody cares about? My love life? My decisions? My problems? Where was the concern when I was engaged to a controlling wart? Suddenly, my business with Hiccup is all anyone wants to talk about!” She started ticking off her numb fingers. “How it reflects on me, how it reflects on my family, whether it’s going well, whether we’re fighting! Geez! Why not go for broke and ask us if we’re fucking!”

Ruffnut snorted at the idea. Then her lips parted with a gasp and her eyes widened. She stared at Astrid in disbelief.  “Are you? I mean, I know you are _together_ and all…but, are you?’

Astrid’s hands fell to her hips, ears tingling with the embarrassment of saying one thing too much.

“Are we what?”

Ruffnut’s face split into a devious grin. “Fucking. Are you two fucking?”

Astrid chewed at the inside of her mouth and then quickly looked away. She felt herself reddening by the second; her accursed complexion.

“Oh my gods, _you are!”_ Ruffnut practically squealed. “You and Hiccup are—!” Then she began to laugh, hand on her stomach as she tossed her head back. It was offensive just how hilarious she found the whole idea.

“I never said—!”

“You didn’t have to!” Ruffnut wheezed, waving flippantly. “Your face did!” She doubled over. “You! You…and _Hiccup!_ Actually _doin’ it!”_

There were snorts interspersed through her laughter, echoing through the village on such an inconveniently still and quiet morning.

“Would you shut your damn face before I put my fist in it?” Astrid hissed, eyes darting to the few curious onlookers drawn out by the other blonde’s cackling. Blood rushed through her veins, in her head, loudly pulsing in her ear.

Her nosy tribesmen leaned into to one another, nodded toward the two girls and whispered. It made Astrid’s hair stand on end and her skin prickle with the shame she could not seem to shake. Whenever things seemed to reach a state of calm—a tentative equilibrium—she found her tribe had discovered one more thing they had yet to gossip about; one more thing concerning her, Hiccup, Stefnir, and the entire, ugly ordeal that just would not die.

Ruffnut straightened up, wiping away a tear and gulping for air. “You’re right! You’re right! It isn’t funny. I’m sorry for you. I bet it’s all pretty sad.”

Astrid recoiled, her face twisting with confusion.

Ruffnut clapped a hand over her mouth. She whispered through her fingers, “No? It’s—? Oh, no! He’s _good?”_

“It’s—! Hiccup is—! He’s…He. Is. _Fine_ , okay?” Astrid sputtered.

Ruffnut snickered. “Yeah, but is he just fine-fine, or is he _fiiiiiine_?”

“I’m going to kill you.” Astrid grabbed her cackling friend and dragged her to a less populated part of the village, past the smithy, by the cliffs overlooking the fog-obscured sea. There, alone together, she let Ruffnut laugh herself exhausted.

After a minute or two, the other blonde simmered down to an occasional giggle.

“Okay,” Ruffnut sighed happily. “I’m done.”

“Good for you,” Astrid retorted flatly.

“You must have it pretty bad for him if you’re willing to risk whatever untarnished reputation you have left.”

Astrid stiffened. So, it was common knowledge then, and not just her mother’s hyper-critical nature? Everyone on Berk either knew or was a part of a growing body of souls who believed her to be of an untrustworthy nature—some sort or loose woman, who played boys like a game of _hnefatafl._ She was a breaker of tradition and promises _,_ likely to renege on deals struck and longstanding arrangements made. Unreliable. So much for being a freewomen; for being able to write her own destiny. No, she needed to fit into everyone else’s neat little box of expectations.

A box, she reminded herself bitterly, that _she_ had constructed over the years.

“What of it, risking my precious reputation? Is all that matters around here anymore?” she asked. “I’ve overheard Tuffnut complaining about _your_ exploits.”

Ruffnut shrugged. “I don’t have much of a reputation to uphold, if you haven’t noticed.”

Point, Thorston.

Astrid turned toward the dark sea, jutting out her bottom lip with an exasperated breath that fluttered her bangs. Waves rolled out into the mist, until sky and sea fused into a wintery haze.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t give a shit what you do,” Ruffnut said, trudging up beside her to gaze off into the distance—as if the mist could provide them answers to any and all problems. The dying grass crunched beneath her feet. “But, if it’s so good between you two, then why is Fishlegs suddenly Hiccup’s ‘right hand’? That’s you’re gig, so what’s soured?”

Astrid tucked wayward strands of her hair behind her ear. They had been blown about in the breeze off the cliffs, flailing wildly in the icy gusts—it was much how she felt.

“Everything. Just…everything.”

 Ruffnut tilted her head, “You’ve broken up with him, then?’

“No. Not exactly.”

“Then it’s not ‘everything.’

Astrid stared at Ruffnut, who smiled and nodded encouragingly. She appreciated the words of support, but it was not so simple. Even if she and Hiccup had not broken ‘everything’, their foundation was crumbling faster than it could be repaired. There were things she feared her friend just could not understand. The complexities of her relationship with Hiccup—its rise, fall, and plateau just above rock bottom—were difficult to articulate.

But Ruffnut stood there expectantly, overestimating her powers of comprehension, and Astrid’s shoulder’s fell. She sighed and began to pace.

“He just…I ask him to be there, and he isn’t. He spends more time in the forge and flying his dragon than he does with me. It’s like I’m an afterthought.”

Ruffnut snorted. “Uh, hello? Have you _met_ Hiccup Haddock?”

Astrid huffed. Already, the other blonde was a disappointing confidante, but the words came pouring out of her anyway. Venting was its own catharsis.

 “Yeah, but I thought being in a relationship would carry a little more weight. Or maybe, I don’t know, bump up a few spaces on his priority list? Then, whenever he does make an effort, it’s always half-assed, like his mind is on something else entirely.”

“Okay, but he nearly died to be with you—because he’s an idiot. Took a sword to the shoulder too, I believe.”

 Astrid rolled her eyes. “I _know_ we he did for me, but now he’s always ‘busy’. It’s always some excuse.”

Ruffnut folded her arms and arched her brows. “Maybe he really is busy?” she suggested.

Astrid scoffed, “Please.”

“No, _really_ , Astrid. You see, the thing about you is you always have to be right. You cut others off at the knees with this high-handed, self-righteous attitude.”

“I do not!” Astrid replied firmly. She waved her hand dismissively. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“There! You just did it! You used to do it all the time when the academy was still going. Thankfully, thre rest of us had Hiccup as a buffer. He’d at least hear us out, but not you. Maybe Hiccup _is_ busy and he _is_ trying. Are you even hearing _him_ out, you’re just telling him how he’s doing it wrong, and how you think he should fix himself? Maybe the poor guy needs his own buffer against you.”

“That isn’t it at all!” Astrid snapped with a glare that could melt iron. Ruffnut was unperturbed. “I don’t want to ‘fix’ Hiccup! I just want him to be a better version of himself.”

Ruffnut’s laugh was hollow. “Okay, Astrid. I’m sure everyone likes to hear they aren’t good enough. You keep setting that bar _just_ out of his reach.”

“I’m not asking more of Hiccup than he is capable of giving.”

“Yeah, but does he know that?”

Astrid puffed up with indignation.

Of course Hiccup knew she was not asking him for anything too unreasonable. All she wanted was the minimum amount of effort she expected someone madly in love would make. It did not take a genius to understand that relationships were give, take, and often times, compromise. Hiccup was intelligent so it was irritating to watch him fall short day after day. He could be a better boyfriend, and Astrid wanted to make him better—elevate their relationship. After all, they had both endured too much to throw it all away into a pit of complacency.

“What makes you an expert?” she asked, frowning.

“I’m no expert,” Ruffnut answered. “Just an observer. Maybe he just needs you to meet him where he is. Don’t drag him along kicking and screaming.”

“I’m not dragging Hiccup anywhere.”

“If you say so. I don’t know the facts here and I really don’t care.”

Astrid narrowed her sharp blue eyes. “Then why are you criticizing me?”

“I think you’re being too proud.”

It was hard to think with the outrage buzzing in Astrid’ brain like a swarm of bees. She could only pin down words of dissent and a number of colorful obscenities that would make Gobber blush. To be told by Ruffnut, of all people, that _she_ was the one who was not looking at matters clearly, was too great an insult.

Astrid was proud, true, but she was clever. It was laughable to think someone so inept at dating was lecturing _her_ on the proper ways to go about it. The other blonde did not know the situation, and most certainly did not have a complete grasp of Astrid’s position, nor Hiccup’s. A relationship went both ways and Astrid certainly was going above and beyond on her part—seeking Hiccup out, keeping him informed of her feelings and exactly what she wanted from him. She had no patience for head games, and so she was forthcoming about what bothered her and what he could do about it. He never had to guess with her, and was that not half the battle? Is that not what men wanted?

For someone as smart as Hiccup was, Astrid was surprised how much she had to hold his hand in their relationship—how little he knew about the obvious. In her opinion, she had to guide him too much.

Ruffnut did not know. How could she, and yet she was perfectly happy to stand there and dole out pearls of wisdom like she was the authority. She had no right and even less understanding. Astrid did not trust herself to speak, lest she say something she could not take back, imploding the tentative rekindling of her friendship with the other blonde.

“I’ve got to go,” she blurted, turning on her heel.

She was feeling far too smothered under everyone else’s judgment lately.

“How many months before I can expect to hear from you again?” Ruffnut called, her laughter ringing in Astrid’s ears.

It was not fair. Everything seemed to come crashing down on Astrid’s shoulders, one way or another. Her parents made a promise to the Svensons and she had been expected to uphold it. She tried to do the right thing and stay close to her intended, and the subsequent dissolution of her friendships had been branded her fault—not the result of just trying to satisfy everyone, to make as little a fuss as she could. A clean break was easier, less messy. Still, she was the heartless one by group consensus. She had tried so hard to honor her parents’ arrangement and the Hofferson name, but the crushing weight of the misery it had wrought left her with little recourse but to pursue whatever shred of happiness she could find. That small joy had been Hiccup, and he had kept her sane and breathed life back into her. Then, he had to go and publically challenge Stefnir of his own volition, and _she_ was called the instigator—a temptress and breaker of promises. To her parents, she was disappointing, overlooking the fact that they had played a table game with her life. Taking back her future reflected on her entire family, so she was the problem—the weed in the garden.

Her, or so everyone seemed to think. No one else was to blame. Just her and _her_ poor decisions, existing in a vacuum.

Astrid flung open the front door to her house, startling both of her parents. Her mother began to rebuke her, but Astrid did not give her the opportunity to finish a sentence. She retreated to her room, yanking off her cloak and tossing it on her bed. The broach clanked against a bedpost, and as it flashed in the gloomy daylight filtering in from her window, it caught her attention.

 It was a stylized Deadly Nadder, impeccably crafted by Hiccup’s fifteen-year-old hands. It had been a Snoggletog gift from a much sweeter, more innocent time, and it made her throat tighten. Her eyes welled up, but she was past the point of crying.

That boy she had loved once was dead. She had thought she had found him for a time during the summer, wrapped in a desperate embrace on Dragon Island, but he had been an imposter—only a poor imitation of the Hiccup who hung on her every word and considered her first. What she had wanted, and what those midnight kisses had promised her, was not what she had received in the end.

So the adage was right. Expectations fell short of reality. Everything she had tarnished her reputation for, everything worth risking what little remained, was just an illusion—an echo of a memory. She had been struggling to turn it into something tangible, but Hiccup could not be bothered to help. It took two of them, but he did not carry an equal burden in their relationship. His load was light. Ever since he had become the Pride of Berk, things had been easy for him. He did not have to try.

Fuming, Astrid dug around her belongings until she found a piece of parchment. It was scribbled up on one side so she flipped it over and wrote as small as she legibly could. Her fingertips ached from how tightly she gripped the pencil, pressing her anger down into every line. All of her fury bled out onto the parchment. She was hemorrhaging raw truths, and each word was like a bur being plucked from her heart. She only stopped when she ran out of material, punctuating the entire tirade with a simple “A.” It was all she could fit for a signature.

Satisfied, she plopped down on the edge of her bed, holding the note in her hot and trembling fingers. The written words rattled in her brain as if she had shouted them. It was a one-sided argument, flawlessly executed against a vague and diminutive daydream of her boyfriend.

“Sneaky!” she called, twisting around to scan her bedroom.

Her brow furrowed, unable to find her Terrible Terror, until a soft pressure on her knees surprised her. She glanced down to find two big eyes considering her excitedly. Tiny wings unfurled as her dragon spotted the note in her hand.

“I need you to take this to Hiccup. He went to Helgafell,” Astrid said, rolling up the parchment and securing it to the dragon’s leg. “Can you do that?”

Sneaky tripped over himself as he scrambled for the window. Not very stealthy, but he was overjoyed to have a job.

As he flew off into the cloudy distance, Astrid let out the breath she did not know she was holding. While she felt lighter, she knew her letter had some weight behind it, and she hoped Hiccup was ready to finally carry his share.

* * *

 

It had been a huge relief to step off the ship onto the rocky, snow-dusted shore of Helgafell. Two days at sea on a _Karve_ with his father, a few burly tribesmen, and one sheep with anxious bowels, had left Hiccup feeling claustrophobic. There had been nowhere to go—no safe retreat to be alone with his thoughts. To add to his dismay, his father saw it fit to educate him on all of the other chieftains and _jarls_ he would encounter at the _Dísablót_ , and a history of their particular clans and settlements.

Exciting stuff, it was not, and he had been a captive audience on their voyage. The destination he had been dreading for the past week had suddenly become his salvation from the miseries of seafaring. Travel by dragon, he firmly decided, was far superior.

He sighed, taking in the frigid, bare spit of land that was Helgafell. Everything seemed to be the same shade of dull grayish-brown, from the dirt, to the water lapping at the coast, to the gnarled, dying trees. Only the thin layer of snow gave the landscape any natural variety. All other color was provided by the sails and tents, sporting different sigils. Rich furs and sumptuous attire was worn by nearly everyone of status—weaving about through the crowd giving life to the otherwise uninhabited island. Helgafell was meant to be a religious center and nothing more, but during the sacred season of Vetrnaetr, it became a bustling makeshift village, complete with its own trade, social hierarchies, and politics. It was a ruckus—chattering, singing, the hammering of camp setup, and the bleating of animals. The aroma of wet leather, livestock, and boiling meat, blended together and settled over Helgafell like a cloud of masculine frivolity.

“We’ll settle over there, along the tree line,” Stoick said, nudging Hiccup before pointing to a clearing past a cluster of stalls and carts.

Accompanied by their oarsmen, Hiccup and his father made their way to the campsite; home for the next three days. It was bitterly cold and the flurries had already begun to fall, but all of the tents were erected despite numb fingers. They worked through the runny noses and watering eyes, and the stinging wind that blew about their cloaks and furs about without mercy, almost as if to mock their shivering.

Hiccup would be sharing a tent with his father, which left no room for privacy. The island itself was tiny. There was nowhere to slip off to for some peace and solitude where he would not inevitably be found. Apart from the tents and the market, there was the central temple and the naked trees provided no shelter. The initial happiness he felt to disembark the _Karve_ was suddenly snuffed out.

“There we are!” his father said brightly, clapping him on the shoulders. “Home away from.”

Hiccup flashed him a weak and disingenuous smile before being shuffled into the tent. He stumbled under the force of his father’s enthusiasm, landing unceremoniously on his bed. It was notably warmer inside, which was a plus; a combination of furs and condensed body heat.

He straightened up as Stoick sat down on the bed across from him, eager yet composed, like they were on some very first father-son fishing trip. The chief cleared his throat, then leaned forward with a serious furrow of his brow.

“Now, Helgafell is a different atmosphere entirely, Hiccup.”

“You mean it’s not a bunch of prominent figures coming together to drink and compare superiority complexes?” Hiccup replied sarcastically.

“Aye, it’s that,” Stoick conceded, exasperated, “but _Dísablót_ is a scared event—a ceremony of very deep religious fervor. Emotions run high this time of year, and there’ll be plenty of people looking fer a reason te fight, caught up in the passions of it all. Don’t give them an excuse. Ye are te stay close te me. Ye are te listen and observe. Do not speak unless ye are spoken te. Am I clear?”

Hiccup rolled his eyes, tugging absently at the heavy furs draped on his thin frame. He felt ridiculous, dressed up and ornamented in his finest clothes and silver. He wore beautifully tooled leather devoid of all dragon emblems, at his father’s insistence, and far more layers than he would usually wear to keep warm. It was not like him to dress to his status, but he was his father’s sole heir—the next leader of Berk—and the goal was for everyone to know it without him having to speak it; impressions and games of posturing.

“Don’t worry, dad,” he said, “I surveyed the company we’ll be keeping and I don’t think I’ll find too many people interested in conversation. They seem more the grunting and pointing type.”

“I’m serious, Hiccup. Ye’ll need to tread carefully. Ye’ll see things here that are very different than what ye see on Berk. Ye’ll hear things. Ye musn’t give anyone an excuse te regard Berk as an enemy.”

Hiccup quirked an eyebrow.

“You’re worried I’m going to commit a social blunder that incites a war?” he asked, incredulously. When his father stayed silent, maintaining his intent gaze, Hiccup scoffed. “Oh, for Odin’s sake! Figures…”

Stoick stood up and marched to the threshold of their tent, gesturing to the large and ornate temple that rose above the campsites. It was an authoritative presence with its height and austere angles.

“We have an important job te do here, son. We represent Berk before the gods and the [_dísir_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%ADsir) alike—te offer our sacrifice and be the bridge between the worlds of gods and men. Among the other chieftains, we represent the might and honor of the Hairy Hooligans.”

Hiccup scoffed and stared down at his bracers, absently fidgeting with the lacings. “Somehow I don’t think the [_Dísir_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/D%C3%ADsir) split hairs over status, dad. In fact, I don’t think they care much at all. Sacrifices to appease them? I’ve often found the gods and the spirits care little for what we want. It’s a one-sided relationship. We need them and they don’t need us. I doubt any amount of tribute it going to fix that.”

“Ye’ll best be keeping those thoughts te yerself, Hiccup, here and on Berk,” Stoick said sternly. “A chief is the spiritual center of his people. Ye lead by example, whether or not ye put any stock in it.”

Hiccup glanced up, brow knitted. He considered his father; a fiercely private man in matters of his faith apart from festival traditions.

“Do you?” he asked.

There was a cryptic shadow in the lines of his father’s face.

The chief replied, “Only as much as I can. I pray te Odin fer the wisdom and Thor te keep Berk safe, and the rest is a matter of forging my own destiny.”

Hiccup swallow thickly and ran his fingers through his hair. To be honest, the whole concept of religion made him uncomfortable. His beliefs were his own and he practiced them as such, with varying degrees of reverence. Knowing he would have to be the keeper of the faith for all of Berk was just one more thing to add to the long list of responsibilities he did not want.

He glanced up again to find his father watching him with that penetrating gaze of his. It was the same one he used in every attempt to read and understand Hiccup better—to cross that gap between them where many words had fallen and remained unspoken. That paternal stare always made Hiccup feel so small and transparent, though Stoick never seemed to know him any better for it.

It was a relief that a flash of white caught his attention and broke the awkward lull in conversation—billowing linens that hovered outside their tent like a specter.

 A woman stood there silently, with a basket in her hands and unbound, wavy hair collecting the light snowfall. She was barefooted, pale toes filthy with dirt. She smiled, thin and mysterious, with astral eyes that looked through them into something far beyond. She offered the contents of her basket to Stoick, who politely declined. Craning his neck, Hiccup could make out her bounty of henbane seeds and shriveled mushrooms.

She just inclined her head and mutely went about her way, onto the next crop of tents where she was received with enthusiasm. Hiccup moved from the bed to stand beside his father. He peered out into the snow, watching her move with an ethereal grace.

“Seiðr,” Stoick said, nodding to the women. “Some say they’re not really human—that they live somewhere between this world and the next. Beware their feminine charms. It’s said they’ll ruin a man.”

Hiccup’s face fell.

“I’ve had more than my fair share of feminism charms, believe me,” he muttered.

The seiðr moved from man to man, yet none of them heckled her, nor made a pass. While they raided her basket greedily, everyone seemed to be wary of the petite and defenseless woman.

“Won’t she freeze?” Hiccup asked, watching her walk over the frozen ground with bare feet, with nothing to protect her from the harsh icy wind but the thin linen gown she wore.

“Apparently they are filled with the fires of the god Hálogi and the fury of Thor’s lightning. They are unable to feel the cold,” Stoick explained.

“Huh.”

The seiðr turned and gazed back at Hiccup— _in_ him—and a wave of unease rippled through him. It was like that glassy stare was traveling down his spine, plucking every nerve.  He could feel the violation of her otherworldly reach, digging deep for secrets and sins he kept buried. He was not one to put much stock in mysticism, but on the sacred ground of Helgafell, he knew better than to challenge it.

She smiled a vaguely and Hiccup averted his eyes, pulling his hood up over his head. Only when she was gone from the corner of his gaze did he venture a sidelong glance around the lip of his cloak.

“C’mon, son,” Stoick murmured, guiding him out into the snow with a firm hand. “There is business te take care of.”

But what it was, he did not bother to share. Hiccup and his father nodded to their oarsmen as they left what little shelter their camp provided, out into the throngs of Vikings from all corners of the archipelago and beyond.

 It quickly became apparent how right Stoick was—how _different_ Helgafell and the other tribes were. Hiccup was not naïve. He was well aware of the practices that had earned Vikings their fearsome reputation. He knew Berk had once been aggressors, but that was before dragons became too large a nuisance to avoid and t resources and attentions had to be diverted. It was common knowledge that rape, pillaging, and murder was all under the permitted behavior of raiding foreign people in foreign lands.

But to _see_ it…

Almost every other camp had thralls—some slaves for menial labor and others, for pleasure. Chieftains and their company sat in their tents or gathered around a campfire, drunk and rowdy, with thrall girls on their lap or at their feet. They were young girls, with barely the air of womanhood about them, and all zeal for life was gone from their faces. Their eyes were hollow where the spark for life should be.

The men laughed, swapping stories of conquest.

“And then the poor bastard begged me te let his family go. ‘Ye can have the horses,’ he says, ‘but let my wife and kids be!’ So, naturally, we took turns with his wife as he watched. Sobbed the entire time, he did! Might say we did him a mercy, runnin’ him through. Took the kids back with us and sold them te the highest bidder. Torched the farm,” one bragged.

“Yes, but what of the horses?”

“Took ‘em anyway!”

Hiccup’s hand balled into a fist, and it was hard to walk as his body trembled with the intensity of his hate.

“Best te block it out,” his father whispered. “Don’t listen. Don’t think about it. Makes it easier.”

Hiccup adjusted his furs, just for something to do with his shaking hands.

“Easier for _what?”_ he asked through his teeth.

“Politics. Business.”

He recoiled. “Who sits down and drinks with men so vile?”

“You will. As Chief.”

Hiccup shook his head. “No,” he replied decisively. Never could he entertain such soulless barbarians—to compromise his own values for their benefit.

Stoick sighed. His face was ruddy from wind chill and his beard appeared grayer from the snowflakes clinging to it. More obvious still was the weariness in his face. It was the look of a man who had carried so much, who was passing the burden to a son who finally understood.

“You will,” he insisted. “For yer people. For Berk.”

They trudged on and Hiccup rounded his shoulders, both to draw his limbs closer to his core for warmth and in moody resistance to the future being laid before him.

Year in and year out, he would attend religious ceremonies and various councils of chieftains, hearing them boast, witnessing their cruelty. All the while, he would endure in a neutral silence. For however long was prudent, he would keep the integrations of dragons on Berk a secret. Every year, he would have to commit men or supplies to violent campaigns he did not believe in, whether directly or by trade agreements, to maintain fragile peace.

For Berk. Always for Berk. Never for himself.

His father finally slowed his stride as they approached a campsite with banners sporting a flaming boar. Hiccup instantly recognized the image as the sigil for the Vandals of the Vale; a nearly eidetic memory was useful for some things. He had spent the better part of one rainy evening, months ago, studying up on his politics under a watchful paternal eye; more of training for a birthright he did not really want. His father practically breathed down his neck as he poured over the sigils of tribes he did not care about.

Much about the Vandals was still a mystery. What could not be ascertained from parchment, his father had sought fit to share during their two-day voyage. Unfortunately, Hiccup had the tendency to stop listening between, “Things ye’ll have te know as chief,” and, “It’s yer destiny.” What he _had_ gleaned in the fleeting moments of attentiveness was the Vandals and the Hooligans were not enemies, but their peace was kept only by mutual favors.

“Stoick the Vast!” a booming voice preceded a short, rotund chieftain with a wiry blonde beard to rival his father’s. “I was wonderin’ when ye’d show up! Still as big as a Monstrous Nightmare and every bit as ugly!”

Stoick chuckled and they embraced one another in a quick one-armed hug, backslap combination.

‘ _Oh, the overflowing manliess_ ,’ Hiccup sighed in his head.

“Einarr the Stouthearted,” his father said.

“Stout in a whole lot of other ways too, eh?” the other chief grinned, patting his protruding belly.

“I told ye te lay off the dragon meat,” Stoick teased.

It was as if someone socked Hiccup in the gut. ‘ _What?’_ echoed over and over again through his consciousness. At first, he was not sure he had heard correctly. He glanced back and forth from his father to Einarr, dismantling that sentence in his head before putting the words, one by one, back into their horrific order, with all its terrible implications.

Nausea rolled over him. His lip curled and he recoiled noticeably, but the two chieftains were too busy indulging in their banter to pay him any mind. He could not swallow, for fear he would become ill with the thought of consuming dragon flesh. The very notion of it was like a white hot fist, clenching his heart and raking sharp nails across his brain.

“I told ye our soothsayer asserts dragon meat’s supernatural effects on a man—the strength and virility gained,” Einarr replied.

“Well, when ye can light yerself on fire, I might find it in me te be impressed.”

Stoick and Einarr chortled while Hiccup was silently reeling, face still contorted with obvious disgust. It took great effort to stifle his seething as the Chief of the Vandals turned to him. The mood went from jovial to palpably tense.

 It had been years since Hiccup had soured anyone’s perception of him before he even opened his mouth.

“So,” Einarr said, puffing up, “this is him, then?”

“Aye,” Stoick said, with all of that insufferable pride. “This is my son, Hiccup Horrendous Haddock.”

‘ _The third_ ,” Hiccup added mentally, with the usual sarcastic bite the other men could not hear. Thankfully.

He nodded. The gesture seemed safe and polite enough.

“Not what I would have expected for the infamous ‘Dragon Conqueror’,” Einarr mused, scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes.

Hiccup furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to respond, but his father nudged him pointedly.

“He brought down the Red Death. I saw with my own eyes.”

“I have no reason te doubt yer word, Stoick,” Einarr replied, though he seemed to do just that. “I’m not interested in yer son’s exploits. I need te talk business with ye. After winter’s thaw, we’ll be sailin’ te the South, but I’m short on men and ships to make any real go of it.”

Stoick folded his arms. “Ye always had more ships than Berk. Ye lost yer edge in a season?”

“Aye. A plague, brought back from the mainland. Lost scores of good men and we had te burn the ships that carried them.”

“And how will ye guarantee any of our people won’t suffer the same fate, raidin’ fer a cause they don’t believe in.”

Einarr waved his heavily ringed hand with an exasperated sigh. “I’m not asking ye fer men, Stoick. I have long since learned not te waste the energy hoping ye’ll compromise yer mighty principles. Ships and weapons—that is what I ask of ye. Berk builds them stronger and faster than any village I know of. Will ye help me, or leave me te the mercies of Earl Ahlstrom and his greed? He’ll bleed me te the point I have te raid a dozen settlements before I break even.”

Stoick stroked his beard thoughtfully, dusting snow from the braided strands of fiery red. “And what’s in it fer Berk?”

“Profit. A return on the investment.”

Stoick seemed satisfied, nodding as Einarr spoke.

“With raided goods?” Hiccup asked incredulously; he could not believe that the Cheif of Berk— _his_ chief and father—was considering being paid with tainted wealth procured by violent means.

Their people had not raided since his grandfather assumed power with the death of his more violent, intemperate brother. With the exception of the Dragon War, Berk was a largely neutral and peaceful entity, more interested in its self-preservation than the terrorizing of vulnerable foreigners. Its wealth was obtained by more upstanding means—trade and commerce. Rape and pillaging was but an unfortunate stain of the Hooligans’ history; one they tried to distance themselves from. It was not a way of life any longer—or so Hiccup had thought. Funding such deplorable action for financial gain was not neutrality—not the sensible benevolence Hiccup had come to expect from his father. Permitting such violence was could not reconcile with his conscience.

“Hiccup—,“ Stoick hissed, with that fierce paternal criticism; one could build up an immunity to it.

“Aye,” Einarr replied. His voice grew low and dangerous. “Is there somethin’ wrong with that, boy? Has Berk become too high and mighty since the last summer’s harvest? Ye’ve found other means of procuring yer wealth since last year’s campaign?”

Hiccup glanced at his father, searching that stony face for some reassurance that Berk did not bolster itself through indirect aggression.

He received no such peace of mind.

“Forgive my son,” Stoick said, stepping forward to brush Hiccup out of Einarr’s immediate judgment. “He is inexperienced in politics and certain, more unpleasant realities of the world.”

If there were two things Hiccup could not stand, it was being both wrong and ignorant; so completely made a fool of by his own doing. As difficult as it was to bear the weight of his father’s glowing pride, it was equally uncomfortable to disappointment the man—though he had much more experience with the latter.

Hiccup was to be the next chief, and there he stood, exposing his own ineptitude, force to swallow more regretful truths of the future that awaited him. It was as if he was frozen still as life, in the form of a cackling little imp, pelted him repeatedly with his failures. There had to be a breaking point where he could not tolerate another glaring example of how he did not measure up to expectations. It used to be a very high bar when he was younger; an obvious disappointment to his village and himself. The older he became the lower the bar seemed to fall, perhaps dragged down by the potential repercussions of his failings. There was only so much criticism a young man could take.

“I do not envy the job ye have ahead of ye, teachin’ him,” Einarr scoffed.

Hiccup clenched his jaw and turned away, eyes unfocused on the bustling camps nearby. He could not look at Einarr, nor his father. He felt nothing but defiance—toward muddy politics, toward his inconvenient birthright, toward the whole godsdamned trip and the way he had left things on Berk. It was not him. None of it; the pleasantries, the posturing, the façade. He was sure it was written all over him.

Hiccup was the awkward square peg be hammered into a very round and narrow hole.

“Yer proposition interests me. I think I may be able to help ye, if we hash out the specifics,” Stoick said.

Einarr seemed pleased, gesturing for them to join him in his lavish tent—adorned with stolen goods, no doubt.

What exactly he said was nothing but a distant buzz to Hiccup’s ears. His attention had been diverted, sharply and unexpectedly. Out of the throngs of Vikings appeared a very familiar face— _so_ familiar and out of place, that Hiccup just stared, bewildered. It was if a daydream had interjected itself to save him from his abysmal reality. His brain tried to rationalize what he was seeing, jogging up to him with a beaming grin.

A girl— _woman—_ whom he had no reasonable expectation he would ever see again _._

Her green eyes peered out at him from a tightly drawn hood. It was old and tattered and nowhere near as sumptuous as his own, nor that of the standard attire on Helgafell, but her radiance was not diminished.

She pulled down her hood, dark hair spilling out in stark contrast to her pale skin; he cheeks were made pleasantly rosy from the cold.

“Hiccup!” she exclaimed. “I barely recognized you!”

“Heather,” he replied, slightly breathless.

She threw her arms around him and he bristled, the air rushing from his lungs. Something in the back of his mind told him he should not enjoy the hug as much as he was, but it was drowned out by the thundering of his pulse.

“Hiccup. Stay put,” his father said, brandishing a stern finger as he slipped into Einarr’s tent to conduct their business.

Hiccup could do nothing but nod, unable to protest, unable to move.

Did he even want to?

“Wh—What are you, uh…What are you doing here?” he stammered, peeling her off him lest the embrace grow too comfortable.

She grasped his hands in hers, and there was still some fleeting warmth in them that the encroaching winter had not yet stolen away.

“We have a lot of catching up to do,” she said and he wished she was not so thrilled to see him.

The light in her eyes was puncturing his conscience.


End file.
